Falling Shadows
by Jaenera Targaryen
Summary: Ten years have passed since the Battle of the Trident. The Seven Kingdoms live in peace, as does the rest of their world. The peace is not to last however, for their world has drawn the attention of the mighty Sith Empire, which now seeks to bring this new world into its fold.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Wars: The Old Republic_ , which is the property of BioWare and LucasArts. Neither do I own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , which is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Falling Shadows

Prologue

Wild Space, frontier of the galaxy, running along the edges of the Outer Rim and the galactic arms, marking the edge of the intergalactic void, and even cutting across the galaxy itself, separating the Unknown Regions from the rest of the galaxy. There, near the edges of intergalactic space, a world orbited its sun in peace. It was a peace that was now broken, as several wedge-shaped and rectangular ships jumped out of hyperspace, and cruised leisurely towards the hapless world.

"Can you feel it?" the Sith Lord standing on an observation deck asked his apprentice.

"I feel it, my lord." The apprentice answered.

Darth Achaia nodded, the Human Sith Lord fixing his golden eyes at the world slowly growing in size through the viewports as their fleet approached. Beside him, Lysus did likewise, and after a moment the Sith Pureblood narrowed her eyes. "The Force," she said softly. "It feels strange. It _seems_ to be strong on that world, but…not truly. It's like an echo…I would say that once in the past that world burned bright in the Force, but now…"

Lysus trailed off, but Darth Achaia nodded. "Yes." he agreed. "It seems that once, that world was a nexus of the Force, but those days are now past, and all that is left are the lingering traces of whatever it was that caused the Force to resonate so strongly on that world in the first place."

"What could that have been, I wonder."

"Perhaps we just might find out, Lysus." Darth Achaia said. "Though it will have to wait until we have made at least some progress in our given task. The Dark Council wishes that world be brought into the fold of the Sith Empire, and so it shall be."

"As you say, my lord." Lysus said with a nod. "Though, from what we know of this world, the inhabitants are primitives. It should not take too much trouble for us to bring this world to heel."

"Indeed it should not."

Master and apprentice fell silent, looking on as their fleet – a modest force of four _Harrower_ Class Dreadnoughts and eight _Terminus_ Class Destroyers – continued to approach the world in the distance, currently bearing the unimpressive designation of 0138-0641-4518. It was inevitable, of course, as the world in question had only been newly discovered, for all that the star system had long since been charted, if left unexplored in-depth for all that time.

In a galaxy composed of hundreds of billions of stars spanning a hundred thousand light years, unexplored star systems were all too common, for all that many had been charted if only to factor in their gravitational influence on interstellar travel. There were simply too many of them, and while every interstellar government worthy of note had active and well-funded exploration agencies (to say nothing of corporate, private, and even _criminal_ groups with similar mandates) hard at work exploring unexplored star systems in search of new resources and anything else an interstellar civilization might need and want, the galaxy was just so big.

Back to 0138-0641-4518 however, it was unlikely said world would retain such an unimpressive name for long. The mysteries surrounding the world aside, the planet was readily habitable for most known species, and even as a backwater initially suitable only as an outpost and resource center, as a world of the Sith Empire it would need a proper name.

And as its conqueror, Darth Achaia would have the honor of giving it a name…in time. And if he conquered it.

Not that it should be difficult, of course. As his apprentice said, the recon force which had discovered the world had also found only primitive, pre-industrial Humans inhabiting it. A modest fleet made up of a handful of dreadnoughts and their escorts should be more than enough.

Though there was the question of where those Humans had come from, and how when they had regressed back to a primitive way of life…

…though like with the strangeness of the world in the Force, it was a mystery for the future to answer.

Conquering the world and bringing it into the fold of the Sith Empire came first.

* * *

Hours later, and the Sith Fleet hung in polar orbit above 0138-0641-4518. On the bridge of the Imperial flagship, _Impetuous_ , Darth Achaia and his apprentice stood at the head of a large holo-table, around which stood ranking naval and army officers, along with lesser Sith Lords attached to Darth Achaia's expedition. The holo-table itself displayed a map of the world below, based on information provided by both the fleet's scans and those conducted in the past by the recon force.

"Thanks to intelligence collected by the recon force," Darth Achaia began. "We know the world below us is not a united civilization in any form. This gives us an advantage, as one of the simplest, oldest, and most effective strategies when it comes to conquering an enemy, is that of divide and conquer."

There were nods all around, and then Darth Achaia gestured towards the east of the planet's core continent. "We know the eastern part of the core continent is under the control of a single monolithic empire," he said. "So we'll reject that as our target for the initial invasion, as an operational application of our overall strategy of divide and conquer."

"A monolithic empire would present a unified front," Lysus said. "And with enough numbers may overwhelm us on a tactical level despite our technological superiority."

"Indeed," Darth Achaia agreed. "And controlling that vast territory with our limited numbers in a post-conquest phase may prove…problematic, complicating efforts at subverting the cultural and psychological foundation of native resistance, and rendering further conquest of the world without reinforcement from the homeland…difficult."

Darth Achaia paused and swept his eyes across those present. "While it is inevitable we'll need reinforcements when it comes to the post-conquest phase," he said. "It would be preferable if that would be the post-conquest phase of this whole world, and not merely that of a single, if relatively-large region of this world."

Again, there were nods all around. "Then," one Sith Lord spoke up. "We are to focus elsewhere on this world?"

"That is correct, Lord Felicis." Darth Achaia said. "The western part of the core continent is apparently divided between a number of mutually-jealous and competing city-states, and living under the shadow of warlike tribes which dominate the steppes of the central part of the core continent. The western continent for its part seems to be under the hegemony of a loosely-united kingdom of feudalized regions, while the southern continent is undeveloped and what little Human life detected there is…primitive, in the extreme."

"The western part of the core continent seems to be the most promising target for our landing operations then." General Granger remarked.

"It certainly seems that way." Admiral Horst said with a nod. "Less united than other regions, has a well-developed urban society that may be fertile ground for modernization initiatives, and has a centralized location for strikes against the western continent, or deeper into the core continent."

There were nods and murmurs of agreement all around, but Darth Achaia was silent. "What is your opinion, my lord?" Lord Axcis asked.

"The Dark Side of the Force is strong here." Darth Achaia said, pointing at the planet's north pole. "And the Force in general is strong here as well."

This time the ranking Sith Lord pointed at the northern part of the western continent, and at a spot on the western continent's east coast. "I sense we should look into them as soon as possible." Darth Achaia said. "And the western continent does have advantages of its own. While it's true the city-states of the western part of the core continent will prove more…amenable, for modernization, their urban society may also prove more resistant to our conquest than we may initially expect. However, that may not be the case for the western continent, with its feudal society."

"Indeed," Lord Axcis said with a nod. "Overthrow the higher echelons of the feudal structure, and replace them with either ourselves, or those among the local aristocrats with promise. Then we can count on their own society's inertia to ensure the loyalty of the greater part of the populace."

"It would also be easier to levy native troops to supplement our own from a feudal society." General Granger admitted. "Though…modernization may prove more difficult."

"In any case that is a problem for after the conquest." Darth Achaia said. "And other spheres' responsibility, as well."

There were nods all around. "Then," Lord Felicis began. "Shall we strike at the enemy capital as a first blow?"

Darth Achaia thought for a few moments and then smiled before shaking his head. "While taking the enemy's head is the quickest way to destroy him," he said. "It might not be the best strategy for us to use."

"My lord?"

"If we take their capital," Darth Achaia said. "Then the western continent is likely to fracture. This would allow us to defeat them one by one, but at the end of it all would leave us with a ruined society that would negate the advantages we aim to gain by taking the western continent in the first place."

Darth Achaia paused and then turned to his apprentice. "Lysus," he said. "How do you think we should proceed in this matter?"

The Sith apprentice stroked her chin, and after several moments nodded slowly. "We need to break them decisively," she said. "But not all at once. We need to repeatedly demonstrate our superiority while destroying the upper echelons of the feudal pyramid, simultaneously win the respect of the middle echelons of the feudal pyramid, and then taking their capital, formalize our seizure of the top of their society."

Darth Achaia nodded in approval. "Well said, apprentice." He said, and Lysus bowed. Darth Achaia studied the map for a few moments, but then Admiral Horst glanced at him.

"If I may, my lord?"

"Very well, say what's on your mind admiral."

The admiral adjusted the holo-table, zooming in on a cluster of islands located off the northwest of the western continent. "I would suggest our initial landings be held here." He said. "It's remote, allowing us to mask our arrival from the natives, while providing a base of operations for further strikes against the western continent, with the initial goal of gathering more information."

"Raids against coastal fiefs would facilitate that." Lord Axcis admitted. "In particular, those islands aren't too far from that large city over there, along the west coast."

"More information would be useful when it comes to operational planning on the ground." General Granger said.

"And even if the enemy notices us," Darth Achaia mused. "We'd have the advantage of being able to strike from those islands at a variety of targets, forcing them to prepare to defend multiple potential targets all at once."

Darth Achaia paused and laughed. "Of course," he said. "They do not know that with our orbital capabilities, we may strike anywhere and anytime on the entire planet. Indeed, if not for the primitive nature of their civilization, this entire world could be taken much more quickly."

There were nods at that, as it was very much true. Ironically, it was easier to bring a more advanced civilization to heel than a primitive one, due to being more affected by the destruction of any one of the pillars holding the entire edifice up.

"Very well," Darth Achaia said. "We'll adopt Admiral Horst's strategy. Striking at those islands, we'll use them to gather more information on what we're up against, before striking at the northern part of the western continent."

"The north, my lord?" General Granger asked.

"Yes," Darth Achaia said with a nod. "From there, we'll strike south, marching in force and crushing any and all opposition while acknowledging the submission of any who would submit, before taking their capital, and with it, the entire continent. Afterwards…"

The Sith Lord trailed off, merely sweeping an arm out over the holographic map. The message was clear, and smiles of anticipation and triumph were shared across all present. "Well then," Admiral Horst said. "With your permission my lord, I will dispatch a squadron of _Extinction_ bombers to conduct a recon sweep of the islands in preparation for our invasion."

"Very good admiral, make it so."

"Yes sir, right away." The admiral said before striding away, barking orders over the bridge.

"General Granger," Darth Achaia said. "Lords Axcis and Felicis, prepare our troops for landing operations."

"Yes, my lord."

"It will be done, my lord."

"As you wish, my lord."

Darth Achaia glanced at his apprentice who glanced back, and then looking back at the map, smiled in anticipation of the conquest to come.

* * *

A/N

We all know how this is going to end, yes? Still, let's have as much fun as we can in the process.


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Wars: The Old Republic_ , which is the property of BioWare and LucasArts. Neither do I own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , which is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Falling Shadows

Chapter 1

"What are those?"

Asha Greyjoy stared up at the sky, following a pair of…things, silver and black, that flew past faster than any bird could possibly fly. A loud roar accompanied their passing, and the young woman – barely, as she was only ten and eight summers old – found herself swallowing as a sense of foreboding fell on her.

"I don't know." She answered her first mate. "But my gut tells me nothing good."

"Then…what should we do, captain?"

Asha glanced at the older man, and then back out in the direction the things had flown into. They were gone now, but the foreboding feeling refused to go away. Even more so, as she realized in hindsight that the things had flown off in the direction of her home, Pyke. Asha thought for a moment, but ultimately her decision didn't need much thought at all.

"All hands," she ordered, raising her voice. "Ply to windward! Make way back to Pyke! And be ready for trouble when we get home!"

The crew acknowledged the order, rushing all over Asha's longship to obey, wood creaking and rope and canvas rustling as they turned back towards Pyke. Others went below deck, and coming back up began tossing satchels of armor at their crewmates. Not weapons, as Ironborn were _always_ armed, but armor though…

"You really think there'll be trouble, captain?" the first mate asked as he buckled on a battered but well-kept cuirass.

"You fought in my father's war." Asha said while buckling on a pair of vambraces. "You tell me."

The older Ironborn looked out to sea for a few moments before nodding slowly. "The wind's blowing in a different direction, captain." He said. "And it's cold and in no way good for us. I know you aren't one for matters of faith captain, but begging your pardon I daresay we could use the Drowned God's blessing here and now. A storm's coming, and it's a nasty one."

Asha stared out to sea as well, eyes narrowed and guts churning. Finally, after several moments she nodded as well. "Never thought I'd say this," she said softly. "But you might have a point there."

Turning away from the sea to look at her crew, now donning their armor and sharpening their weapons when they weren't seeing to their duties, Asha felt her guts twist.

" _It won't be enough._ " She thought treacherously, somehow knowing it to be the truth. " _It won't be enough, it just won't._ "

Asha then took a deep breath, and turning back to the sea steeled herself. " _But,_ " she thought. " _Whatever happens, whoever might come, we won't go down without a fight. That much is also true._ "

* * *

Shuttles descended from space, bearing an entire brigade's worth of troops including mechanized and even armored support down to the planet's surface. _Supremacy_ fighters escorted them down, not that there was any need for such a role, though they could – and would – provide close air support to the troops after they landed.

Again, there was no real need for such, but there was no reason either to _not_ do things properly.

Two battalions each were assigned to take the islands known to the natives – and later on to the Sith as well – as Blacktyde, Orkmont, and Old Wyk. Landing outside the main settlements, troops quickly disembarked from their shuttles along with their crawler transports and tanks, even as fighters soared past overhead.

Displaced air shrieked as laser cannons spat crimson death, explosions erupting across the settlements followed by screams. Wooden towers and palisades flew apart or went down in flames, before the fighters came around and murderously strafed the local lords' castles.

Imperial troops marched up the dirt road to Blacktyde Castle, a crawler tank leading the way, its powerful form rumbling as it advanced at a leisurely pace. As they approached the castle town, smoke could be seen rising into the air in the distance, from all over the town and from the outer sections of the castle itself.

Displaced air screamed as the tank fired its primary laser cannon, dirt exploding into the air in the distance along with broken corpses, Ironmen charging down along and beside the road towards the attackers. "WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!" they screamed.

Imperial troops dispersed, as tanks and other vehicles opened up with repeating heavy blasters and laser cannons, and then once in position the Imperial troops opened fire as well with their blaster rifles. Crimson bolts rained down on the Ironmen, and in minutes the Imperials were advancing again, albeit in a dispersed formation this time.

The tank's turret elevated its barrel as they advanced, and then fired once, twice, three times and more, into the town beyond. Explosions went up with every shot, causing more damage and casualties and spreading more fires, but the Imperials didn't care. Until the enemy surrendered or the settlement was under occupation, whichever came first, no mercy would be shown.

"Ceasefire, and hold position!"

The order came from the command crawler, and the Imperial troops went to ground. In the distance, if not so far now, a man mounted on a steed could be seen at the settlement's ruined gates, waving a white flag of surrender.

After a moment, the senior major in command climbed out of the command crawler, and crossed the no man's land accompanied by two Imperial soldiers. The mounted men did likewise, approaching slowly and cautiously, before dismounting a short distance away and walked to meet the Imperials.

As he approached, the Imperials stopped at the midpoint, and eventually so did the man. He unclipped his sword and held it out before him. His eyes were hard and angry, as was his face's expression, but there was resignation there as well.

"I am Baelor Blacktyde, Lord of Blacktyde." He said. "We cannot resist any further, and too much blood has been spilt already. I surrender myself, and the smallfolk on my lands, to you and yours."

The Imperial soldiers looked at each other, not understanding the man's language, but their officer understood enough. Taking the offered sword with a nod, the senior major gestured to resume the advance, only this time Lord Blacktyde sullenly accompanied the Imperials into his conquered town.

* * *

Elsewhere, on Orkmont Houses Orkwood and Tawney refused to surrender, fighting and dying to the last man. Their castles burned as the Imperials stormed them without mercy, while in the ravaged towns below townsfolk and thralls alike were herded into the squares and secured with disintegrator fields.

Curses and insults were shouted at the Imperial soldiers standing guard outside the disintegrator fields, but were ignored. For one thing, the Imperials couldn't understand what the Ironborn were saying (though they could guess). And even if they did, the discipline drilled into them during training and exercises were enough to have them ignore such petty provocation.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-!" a man screamed as he fell back, having dared try and push his way out of the glowing field surrounding them.

It was a choice he now regretted, with most of his right arm and part of the right shoulder burned down to the bone by contact with the disintegrator field. Cries and shouts of fear, terror, and horror went up at the sight, parents quickly turning their children away as more than a few people vomited at the sight.

"His arm…!"

"What sorcery is that?"

"What are they?"

"They be demons! What else could they be?"

The Imperials ignored the Ironborn, while others swept the town and the outlying settlements. Houses were broken into, and while the Imperials refrained from looting and raping, resistance was violently and mercilessly crushed. Those who surrendered were taken back to the holding areas, and made to join those kept behind the disintegrator fields. The bodies of the dead were dragged off elsewhere, and disposed of by burning.

Similar outcomes were playing out on other islands. On Old Wyk, Lord Dunstan Drumm surrendered after the death of his older son Denys and the maiming of his younger son Donnel. House Goodbrother of Shatterstone was wiped out to the last man, as was House Stonehouse.

On Harlaw the Sith deployed three battalions of troops and an armored company, and were backed by Sith Warriors led by Lord Felicis. House Harlaw, the only other Ironborn house matching the prestige, power, and wealth of House Greyjoy was wiped out. Lord Felicis personally slew Rodrik Harlaw, while Boremund the Blue and Ser Harras Harlaw died by the guns of Imperial soldiers.

Hotho Humpback was killed by a direct hit on the room he was in by a _Supremacy_ on a strafing run. His body would never be found, much less recovered. Sigfryd Silverhair would have the posthumous honor of killing two Imperial soldiers in an ambush in his own castle, stabbing one in the neck and throwing another out a tower's window.

A concussion grenade would have him die the same way, blown out the same window he'd thrown an Imperial soldier out of.

Great Wyk would see five battalions and an armored company, along with Sith Warriors led by Lord Axcis, storming the island. Of the houses which called it home, only House Sparr would survive, and even Steffarion Sparr would be marked by his encounter with the Sith, losing his right arm at nearly the shoulder to a Sith Warrior who'd cleaved it off with a lightsaber.

Saltcliff would be subjugated by two battalions, with the houses calling it home both wiped out. The climax of the operation would be on Pyke of course, with three battalions and an armored company allocated to the island…along with Darth Achaia and his apprentice Lysus.

* * *

 _Supremacy_ fighters soared down, laser bolts lancing out to destroy the longships at port. Lined up as they were, there reduced to burning wrecks and floating chunks bobbing in the water.

Ironborn and thralls alike ran as the Imperials strafed the waterfront again and again, shacks and other constructions along the water going up in flames and explosions. Up ahead, Lordsport was going up in flames, Ironborn trying to defend their homes only to die at the hands of Imperial guns.

"What the hell are those things?" one of Asha's surviving crew asked.

"I have no fucking idea." Asha spat, wiping blood out her eyes, leaking from a cut on her forehead.

"T-t-they're demons." Another man said, near-hysterical. "What else could they be?"

"Get yourself together, Rodrik!" Asha snarled in disgust. "No such thing as demons…they're probably just men in armor."

"But cap…didn't you say just now that you didn't have any idea…!"

The man broke off as Asha hit him on the back of the head. "Listen you," she snarled. "All of you! I have no idea where these men came from, or what those hellish weapons of theirs are, or why they're here, but I do know one thing."

"And what's that, cap?"

"This fight's no good." Asha said, her shoulders slumping. Gasps went all around at the sight, their usually so defiant and spirited captain, the true-hearted daughter of Balon Greyjoy himself, admit defeat. And yet…none of them could deny it.

If they were up against the mainlanders or Essosi sellwords, slavers, and the like and Asha had admitted defeat, they might have denounced her. But against this enemy…they couldn't. Not when this was an enemy they couldn't fight against, not really. Swords and spears were useless, if only because the enemy would kill one before one could get close. Arrows and crossbow bolts just bounced off their armor.

Wildfire might work, but they had none on hand, and they didn't have time to prepare pitch or naphtha to use against them. "So…what do we do now, captain?" one crewman asked.

Asha looked around the corner, and saw the empty street beyond. The enemy wasn't gone though, as every so often they could hear those strange…things, of theirs fly past overhead. And in the distance, they could hear the sound of the enemy's hellish weapons, and the screams of their people dying.

"We need to get out of here." Asha finally said. "Get help from the mainland maybe, though I'm not sure we could win even if the fat king sends help. Still, it's our only chance."

Asha turned back to her crew, or what was left of it. They looked at each other uneasily, but then nodding, turned back to Asha. She nodded back, and getting up, cautiously left their hiding place in an alley. "Let's go…" she began, only to break off as a shadow fell over them.

"By the Drowned God…" one of her crew whispered.

"What…what is that?" another asked.

"This is sorcery…sorcery most foul…" a third whispered.

In truth, it was just a _Fury_ Class Interceptor, leisurely soaring down to land up the street from Asha and her men, crushing the houses and buildings on either side of the street as it did. The landing ramp descended, two figures cloaked and armored in black stepping down. Faces hidden behind helmets of black metal gazed down the street, and as their gaze fell upon her Asha felt as though someone had just walked over her grave.

She took a step back…and then one of the two figures held out his hand, fingers stretched towards her. And then an invisible, irresistible force grabbed hold of her, and Asha couldn't help but scream as she was lifted off her feet and pulled through the air towards the dark figure.

"Captain!"

"Let her go, you monster!"

"Get them, boys!"

"What is dead may never die!"

The other figure stepped forward, pulling a metal cylinder from its belt, and then with snap-hiss a blade of burning red seemed to extend from the cylinder.

* * *

Lysus quickly closed the distance, using the Force to move faster than would normally be possible. The first swing of her lightsaber cut a man into pieces, through a raised forearm, then the rest of his arm, across his chest, then another arm, and finally another raised forearm. A second swing cut a man through a raised forearm, and then down from shoulder to hip.

Molten sparks showered down over her armor and cloak and down onto the ground as she carved through steel swords, followed by flesh. Unlike her earlier blows, these deaths were far from quick, the victims dying painfully from the trauma as her lightsaber carved into chests, necks and torsos.

Sinking down to avoid a wild swing of a curved sword, Lysus cut a man's legs out from under him and then cut him in half in the backswing. A hand struck out, and an Ironborn was sent flying, going through several wooden houses and vanishing into the distance.

"Lysus seems to be enjoying herself." Darth Achaia remarked, watching his apprentice fight in the distance. "I wouldn't call it a fight though, more like a slaughter. Oh?"

Darth Achaia turned his attention back to his prisoner, who was struggling against his telekinetic grip as she floated in the air before him. "Feisty, aren't you?" he asked. "Then again, from what I know you're still technically a child. Still…you may be useful."

Without another word, Darth Achaia placed his fingers on Asha's brow, and the young woman screamed as the Sith Lord forced knowledge of Galactic Basic into her head. And then dropping his grip, Asha fell to the ground, vomiting and clutching her head.

"Now then," Darth Achaia said. "Won't you tell me your name, child? I know you are the local overlord's daughter, that much I have seen, but…your name eludes me."

"Asha…Greyjoy…" Asha gasped…and then screaming in rage and loss she pulled out a hidden dagger and stabbed up…

…only to be stopped by the same invisible force from before, gripping her wrist. Before she could lash out some more, she found herself floating up, to the Sith Lord's eye level.

"Oh I like you." Darth Achaia said with a grin. "You're a noble after all, and it wouldn't do for a noble to grovel or just break like a slave or even a commoner would. Even if you must submit, then you must do so with dignity."

The Sith Lord broke off as Lysus approached, followed by several Imperial soldiers. The latter sank to their knees before Darth Achaia, while in the distance, more soldiers could be seen, gathering corpses and body parts for disposal. "Lysus," Darth Achaia asked. "I sense…dissatisfaction, is it?"

"It was hardly a fight." The younger Sith complained. "I suppose there is…satisfaction, in victory, but as a warrior…"

Lysus trailed off, but Darth Achaia nodded. "Understandable," he said. "But remember Lysus, embrace your emotions, your passion, and draw your power from them…but do not let them rule over you. They are your sources of power, means to an end and not ends in themselves. That is what it means to be a Sith."

"I understand, my lord." Lysus said with a bow. Darth Achaia nodded.

"Very good," he said, before gesturing to the soldiers present. "Secure the prisoner, but keep her separate from the other prisoners, along with the rest of the local nobles...or those left alive among them, in any case."

"It will be done my lord." The sergeant said with a bow.

Darth Achaia nodded and released Asha, who immediately lashed out only to be restrained by the soldiers present. Ignoring her shouts and curses, Darth Achaia turned away, gesturing for his apprentice to follow. "Come, Lysus." He said, looking into the distance and the burning sight of Pyke Castle. "It is time we brought an end to this."

"Yes, my lord."

* * *

Pyke Castle was in flames. The defenders had destroyed the bridge connecting the castle to the mainland, but the Imperials had simply brought up heavy guns to knock down the outer walls to open up spaces for landers to be deployed in, allowing Imperial troops to land inside the Great Keep itself. The Great Keep was already overrun by the time Darth Achaia and Lysus arrived, with the Great Hall turned into a field hospital along with adjacent rooms.

The close interior of the castle gave the defenders a chance to fight on more even odds, greatly negating the Imperials' superior technology. Despite this, while there were plenty of serious and even a few critical injuries, no fatalities were so far suffered by the troops storming Pyke.

The Bloody Keep however was still under siege, with Imperial troops having taken those areas adjacent to the bridge linking the keep to the Great Keep, while the rest of the keep was still held by the Ironborn. They fought fiercely and desperately, firing crossbows at close range and using crude incendiaries to counter superior Imperial technology.

Laser blasts lanced out from Darth Achaia's _Fury_ , blowing the top clear off the Bloody Keep. And then the Sith Lord and his apprentice jumped down from the landing ramp, leaving droids to pilot the craft.

Ironborn stared as the two Sith fell from a height that should have left them bloody smears on the ground, only to land with catlike grace. Burning red blades ignited as Darth Achaia activated his saberstaff, and Lysus her lightsaber. And then they charged.

The Ironborn tried to fight. They failed, and died with honor, but died nevertheless.

Darth Achaia stabbed an Ironborn through the gut, then reversing spun and cut four Ironborn to pieces in a single kata. Behind him Lysus was literally chopping her way through the Ironborn, molten sparks spraying around her as she sheared through weapons, while screams pierced through the air as she cut her foes to pieces.

The attack of the two Sith broke the Ironborn, Imperial troops pushing forward to overwhelm the defenders of the Bloody Keep from the front. Some surrendered, and were spared. Others refused to give up, and were either killed by Imperial guns to the front, or were cut to pieces by Sith lightsabers from the rear.

As the Blood Keep finally fell, only the Sea Tower was left, with the Kitchen Keep having surrendered already after the Great Keep had fallen. Attempts to push on found the last bridge leading to the Sea Tower cut, literally so, as the bridge had been made of rope.

Ironborn jeered and laughed from the Sea Tower's doors, mocking the Sith and their soldiers. Darth Achaia was unamused, and jeers turned to screams as lightning erupted across the open air between the Bloody Keep and the Sea Tower, turning men into smoking husks that either fell into the sea below, or back into the tower.

The Sith Lord gave orders, and then to the shock and horror of the Ironborn watching through windows Darth Achaia and Lysus leaped through the open air and landed in the Sea Tower. A door reinforced with iron barred their way, only to be telekinetically crushed into splinters.

Marching into the Sea Tower the two Sith then went into rampage, killing and all into their path. Meanwhile, Darth Achaia's _Fury_ soared overhead, and again its laser cannons lashed out, blowing the tower's top off. Lines descended from the _Fury_ , and then Imperial soldiers were rappelling down, blaster rifles roaring as they descended.

Attacked from above and from the front, the Ironborn crumbled. Balon Greyjoy was personally slain by Lysus, who he attempted to burn to death with wildfire. As green flames burned on her armor and reduced her cloak to ash, the enraged Sith lashed out with Force Lightning, incapacitating the old man before a two-handed blow with a lightsaber cut him in half.

The last thing the man who once claimed to be 'King of the Iron Islands' saw was Darth Achaia killing his wife only a few steps away, saberstaff cleaving her head clean off before Lysus' own weapon ended his life.

* * *

Darth Achaia walked into the Great Keep's Great Hall, passing cots occupied by injured soldiers, as well as medics and droids attending to them. The medics and the injured alike attempted to rise or kneel, but the Sith Lord graciously waved them off, encouraging them to focus on their duties instead of courtesy at present.

"A most interesting construct, isn't it Lysus?" Darth Achaia asked, as they approached the throne carved from black stone into the shape of some kind of aquatic monster.

"The stone…it…it doesn't…register, in the Force." Lysus said with mixed confusion and alarm. "It's…it's like it isn't there, just a blank spot…a gap, in the Force."

"Yes," Darth Achaia agreed, running a hand over an armrest. "This…throne…" he began. "It's similar to, but different from the ysalamiri. They push the Force away from themselves, creating a bubble wherein it doesn't exist…this however…"

The Sith Lord trailed off, and then with a thoughtful expression on his face sat down on the throne. He patted the armrests a few times, and fidgeted a little. "My lord?" Lysus asked.

"No change." Darth Achaia finally said. "I can still touch the Force while seated on this throne, and yet…the throne does not change either. It remains an empty spot in the Force."

"So…like the ysalamiri, it pushes the Force away, but only from itself, and not its environs."

"Indeed, Lysus."

"But…why? And how?"

"Why and how indeed." Darth Achaia agreed. "Is it a natural property of the stone this throne is made from? Or is it something else? Like say…could it have been the product of an experiment in the Force held in the past of this world?"

"By who? Our ancestors?"

"Perhaps," Darth Achaia conceded. "But the Sith were not the first, nor the only ones to seek to bend the Force to impose changes on the physical and metaphysical planes alike."

"…the Rakata?"

"Possibly," Dark Achaia said. "It would explain the presence of Humans on this world, though until we find evidence of such, it must remain a hypothesis, albeit a promising one."

Lysus said with a nod. "And of course my lord," she said. "We must conquer this world first."

"Indeed," Darth Achaia said. "And once we do, we'll be able to ponder this world's mysteries at will."

"As you say, my lord." Lysus said with a nod.

"We'll hold an audience with the remaining native lords and leaders tomorrow." Darth Achaia said. "We'll hold it here, of course. What better way to demonstrate our supremacy than to have their leaders bend knee before the Sith Emperor's chosen agent seated on the throne of their kings?"

"As you say, my lord." Lysus said with a bow. "Shall I make the arrangements?"

"Very well, make it so." Darth Achaia said, rising from the throne. "I myself shall return to the _Impetuous_. I shall receive your report there later this evening."

"It shall be as you say, my lord."

Darth Achaia nodded before sweeping away, Lysus following after a moment, though she did not accompany her master to his _Fury_ , as she had other tasks to attend to here, on the planet's surface. She would return to the _Impetuous_ only when she had accomplished them in full.

* * *

A/N

Well, what did you expect?

Just for clarification, the year is 293 AC. Asha was born in 275 AC, so yes, she's 18 years old. What about the Sith? What year is it? Meh...at some point in the Cold War, well before things start going to hell i.e. character storylines much less the DLCs take place.


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Wars: The Old Republic_ , which is the property of BioWare and LucasArts. Neither do I own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , which is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Falling Shadows

Chapter 2

The door banged open as two Imperial soldiers entered the room, frog marching an old man between them. With his simple robes of plain brown, the old man resembled a Jedi, though the chain around his neck indicated otherwise. That, and the Imperials already knew otherwise: the old man was no Jedi.

The soldiers deposited the old man into a chair, and stepping aside one stood by a nearby wall while the other closed the door and stood threateningly before it.

"Qalen, I believe your name is." The woman seated behind the desk – the maester's desk in fact, at least before the invasion – said while speaking accented Westerosi. "Maester and advisor to the former Lord of the Iron Islands, or am I wrong?"

"You are not." Maester Qalen said. "Might I have the honor of your name, my lady?"

"Who I am is not important." The woman said. "But, I suppose a conversation requires a minimum degree of trust between those participating in it to work. As that is the case, you may address me as Cipher."

"Cipher?"

"Yes, Cipher."

Qalen took a moment to study the woman before him. Based on the height of the chair she was sitting in, she was tall for a woman, while the lack of grey in her dark hair or wrinkles on her face seemed to indicate an age of between twenty and forty summers. Her pale skin _might_ be evidence of her being noble-born, and the iron will he could discern from her eyes and voice seemed to lend weight to that observation.

The same went for her bearing, but…there was something else there. She _could_ be noble-born, but whether she was or wasn't, this was a woman who was used to getting what she wanted, one way or another. Not out of a sense of entitlement, though it was there, but it also seemed that this woman was willing and capable of dirtying her hands to get what she wanted.

She was dangerous.

Qalen swallowed dryly. "I assume then, that what is important is what you want from me?" he asked.

Cipher smiled a wintery smile. "Indeed," she said, sitting back in her chair. "Darth Achaia and the rest of the expedition's leaders wish to know more about your…Seven Kingdoms, of Westeros. And while we may find everything we need to know from your reference materials, going through so many materials when we've barely managed to learn your language – or even without that – is time-consuming and tedious. And while we are not truly pressed for time, neither do we have any wish to spend more time than is necessary on academic concerns, when there are other means to obtain what we wish to know."

"…you only just learned our language?" Qalen echoed incredulously. "I apologize, but…that is hard to believe. You clearly speak the Common Tongue, albeit with an understandable accent, but…I would say you would have years of experience or study behind you."

"Then you would be mistaken." Cipher said. "Both by saying so, and by underestimating – even in ignorance – the abilities of the Lords of the Sith."

"The Sith?" Qalen echoed. "Is that the name of your people?"

"Indeed it is, but that is not what is important here."

"I suppose it is not." Qalen admitted. "Very well…what do you wish to know about the Seven Kingdoms?"

Cipher leaned forward, transfixing Qalen with her eyes. "Everything." She said. "Tell me, everything."

* * *

Even as a Cipher Agent began questioning the resident maester on the history, society, and other aspects of the Seven Kingdoms, Darth Achaia seated himself on the Seastone Chair in the Great Hall of the Great Keep of Pyke. To his right stood his apprentice, Lysus, the Sith Pureblood removing her helmet to show her face to the Ironborn who would be brought before her master.

A double file of Imperial soldiers stood at attention before the Seastone Chair, force pikes at the ready, while more soldiers were standing in the shadows along the walls on either side of the hall. A protocol droid was also nearby, to record the proceedings to follow for documentation purposes.

The Sith Lord gestured, and a pair of soldiers opened the doors to the Great Hall. "We will now begin the audience with the remaining nobles." Lysus said, speaking on her master's behalf.

The first to be brought in was Asha, stun cuffs binding her wrists, though her guards had allowed her to dress herself in something more…appropriate, before bringing her before Darth Achaia. The young woman was forced down on her knees, from where she glared hatefully at her mother's murderer.

Noticing this, her guards moved to strike her, but an amused hand from the Sith Lord dissuaded them. Bowing low, they moved back a step.

"Asha Greyjoy," Darth Achaia said. "Daughter of Balon Greyjoy…you hate me, don't you? I can see and feel it. No, I don't blame you, nor do I particularly care…so long as you fulfil the role I wish for you to play. You were made to kneel before me, but I wish for you to do so of your own free will before _my_ master, the Immortal Emperor of the Sith."

Darth Achaia paused and tilted his head. "Speak what's on your mind." He said. "No need to hold back, I won't bite."

"I will never bow before you or your master, monster!" Asha spat. "Nor will my people!"

"Then you will die." Darth Achaia replied coolly.

Asha sneered. "I do not fear death." She hissed, and to her surprise Darth Achaia smiled and nodded.

"Indeed you do not." He said. "And for that alone you deserve respect. So much so that if I were to have you executed, then I would grant you a quick and merciful death. But if so…I would simply find another to govern in your place."

"My uncles would never bow before you anymore than I would." Asha growled. "And with House Harlaw destroyed, no other house on the Iron Islands would have the ability to command my people as my family would have. What would you do then, my lord?"

"Then I would appoint a military governor, with full authority to maintain law and order as needed, until such time as we have no further need for your islands to serve as our beachhead." Darth Achaia replied. " _And then_ we shall make an example of your islands and people, as to what happens to those who defy the Sith."

The Sith Lord didn't elaborate, but given the way the blood drained from Asha's face, she knew what that meant. Every last man, woman, and child on the islands would be killed or sold into slavery, their homes razed to the ground, with all that would be left of the Ironborn a tragic footnote on the pages of history.

"Such are your choices," Darth Achaia continued. "Bow before the Empire, govern your people in the Emperor's name, or stand defiant, and lead your people down the path to annihilation. Now, choose."

It was no choice, and everyone knew it. An expression of utter hatred and anguish twisted Asha's features for a moment, and was then replaced by one of resignation before she bowed her head, on her knees. "I pledge my allegiance," she said softly. "To the Sith Emperor."

"Excellent!" Darth Achaia said cheerfully. "Now rise, Lady Greyjoy, and take your place at my side."

Asha nodded heavily, and then standing allowed the guards to remove her stun cuffs. Darth Achaia gestured for Asha to stand to his left, and as she did so, the Sith Lord turned to his apprentice. " _Observe, Lysus._ " He said, speaking in Sith. " _Every man – or woman – has their price. It need not be in coin or commodities, but anything they are unwilling to give up the opportunity to obtain._ "

" _Yes, my lord._ " Lysus said with a bow. " _Should we continue with the audience?_ "

Darth Achaia nodded. "Send in the next one." He ordered.

The guards at the door bowed, opening them to allow more guards to enter, flanking a long-haired and long-bearded man in ragged robes to enter. Darth Achaia and Lysus alike scowled at his filthy appearance, while Asha winced and briefly looked away.

"Aeron Greyjoy, brother to…" Darth Achaia began only to be interrupted.

"TRAITOR!" Aeron roared as he spotted Asha standing beside Darth Achaia. "BETRAYER OF YOUR KIN! THE DROWNED GO-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-!"

Lashing out with force pikes, even on a low setting the weapons delivered incredibly painful blows as energy coursed through Aeron's body from the blows inflicted by his guards. Asha winced and turned to Darth Achaia. "My lord," she said with a bow. "It is as I told you earlier. My uncle will never bow."

"And what would you suggest, Lady Greyjoy?" Darth Achaia asked.

"I only ask that you grant him a swift death." Asha said.

Darth Achaia nodded slowly and then turned back to Aeron who'd collapsed on the ground, twitching in pain as smoke rose from his robes. "Are you finished?" Darth Achaia asked.

Aeron did not reply, and after a moment Darth Achaia gestured. The guards then grabbed the priest and forced him up to his knees, and to face Darth Achaia. Even in pain, or indeed, _because_ of the pain, Aeron's hatred spiked at the sight of the golden-eyed usurper seated on the sacred throne of the Drowned God's chosen.

"I asked you a question, priest." Darth Achaia coldly asked.

The response was spit spat at the Sith Lord's feet, followed by screams as the guards beat the priest to an inch of his life. "It'll be pointless to ask if you would pledge allegiance to the Emperor by this point," Darth Achaia said as the guards stepped back. "So I will ask a different question instead: any last words?"

Aeron groaned and moaned as he struggled to rise, and with a gesture from Darth Achaia was again hauled to his knees. Pain-hazed eyes fixed themselves on the Sith Lord, and hatred struggled to come to the fore. "T-the Drowned…G-G-God…will have his due. Usurper…y-you will…not…escape h-h-his judgment…"

Darth Achaia snorted and sneered in disdain. "Pathetic fool," he said. "What a waste of my time and effort. The Drowned God, you say? That is the object of your faith and devotion? So be it, I will allow you to be united with your god, such is the generosity of the Sith. Throw him into the sea, alive. Let him be with his precious god."

Asha turned to Darth Achaia, but was held back by the icy expression on his face. Thinking better of it, she merely closed her eyes, looked away, and taking a deep breath forced herself to watch as her uncle was dragged off.

On the other side of the throne, Lysus carefully watched Asha, and as she watched Aeron be taken away, Lysus smiled.

 _Good, good…it seems you are learning your place, primitive._

Darth Achaia drew himself up on his throne. "Proceed," he ordered, and at that the guards brought in the next noble.

* * *

"We've done it now. We're traitors to the Iron Throne."

Lord Baelor Blacktyde and other nobles who'd bent knee before the 'Sith Emperor' or rather his agent, were gathered in a large, well-lit room in Pyke's Great Keep. Servants served food and drink, but the atmosphere was far from festive.

"At least you're just traitors to the fat king." Asha growled, standing next to a window and staring out to sea. "I'm a traitor to my kin. They killed my mother and father alike! And I bowed before them!"

"Yes," Lord Dunstan Drumm began with a sneer. "You were first to kneel before us, weren't you?"

Asha turned on Drumm with burning eyes. "And what would you have done, Drumm?" she spat. "Fought to the death? Stayed defiant to the end? And what would that have achieved? Would dying with your pride intact be worth ensuring that in but a few moons all our people would be dead or chained as slaves?'

"Surely they wouldn't go that far?" Blacktyde asked.

"Are you willing to take the risk?" Asha asked, and Blacktyde looked away.

"I suppose not." He admitted.

"But there's no guarantee they'd have done so, either." Drumm muttered. "For one thing, who would till the fields and work the mines if they killed all of us?"

"They'd just bring in slaves, no doubt." Lord Steffarion Sparr answered. "Or used more of their…contraptions. They wouldn't really need us, it's just more convenient for them if we cooperate."

"I don't like it." Drumm growled.

"And yet here you are." Blacktyde snapped. "You speak to us so strongly against bowing against these invaders, and yet…here you are. You bowed too, did you not?"

"MY SON IS DEAD!" Drumm exploded, slamming a fist against the table. "THEY KILLED HIM! AND MY YOUNGER SON A CRIPPLE…AGAIN, THANKS TO THEM! HOW DARE YOU…"

"I dare because regardless of your reasons, you still bent knee." Blacktyde coldly interrupted. "Not that I blame you. You did it for the sake of your only remaining son. That much cannot be denied. A cripple he might be, but so long as he lives, there is hope. There is none in death. You have at least that excuse to plead before the gods when we are judged for our treachery in the end."

"Your new gods, perhaps." Drumm sourly said. "But the Drowned God would never accept such an excuse. To allow one not given to him to sit upon the Seastone Chair, and with a demon by his side…"

An air of dark agreement fell over most of the Ironborn nobles, even Blacktyde for all that he followed the Seven and not the Drowned God…but then Asha gave a snort. "Demon?" she echoed. "Are you Ironborn or not?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Drumm growled.

"I may not have been to Essos just yet," Asha said. "But unlike the ignorant mainlanders I am aware that on Essos, and on other lands, there are peoples who would pass for demons in the eyes of lesser men. Who is to say that red-skinned woman is not simply one of those?"

There was silence for several long moments, and then a minor lord piped up. "That is true." He said. "I have been to Ibben, and I have seen Sothoryi in the slave markets of Volantis and Slavers' Bay. We cannot say that red-skinned woman cannot just be one of the other…strange, folk that live on distant lands we have yet to visit."

"But from where?" another minor lord asked.

"Ulthos, maybe? Or perhaps from across the Sunset Sea?"

There were murmurs of agreement, and yet somehow Asha suspected the origins of these invaders was not nearly as simple and straightforward as they made it out to be. "Regardless of where they're from," she finally said. "What matters is that here and now they are in control. And I doubt they'd be satisfied with just us, either."

"What makes you say that?" Blacktyde asked.

"The…Sith Lord," Asha said. "He implied earlier that we are only a stop, a stepping stone for their ends. Which likely means they plan to invade the mainland."

"…here we go again." Sparr muttered after a moment.

"Will they strike at the North first?" Drumm asked. "Or the Riverlands? Or perhaps the Westerlands?"

"I don't know." Asha said. "He didn't say."

"…more importantly," Blacktyde began. "What do we do now?"

Sparr snorted, and then gingerly patted the sleeve where his other arm would have been. "Isn't it obvious?" he asked. "We survive."

There was silence all around for several long moments, as none present could deny that was all they could do right now. "What of Victarion and Euron?" Drumm eventually asked. "They were out at sea when these invaders came, weren't they? Could we count on them should they return?"

"Victarion, yes." Blacktyde said. "Euron though…"

The man trailed off, his voice and expression showing his unease. Drumm couldn't really blame him, and neither did the other lords. Euron Greyjoy had an ugly reputation, even among his people.

"What will be will be." Asha eventually said with a sigh. "Though I doubt even if Uncles Victarion and Euron return, they can do much. Indeed, I hope they don't. I'd rather not provoke these invaders to hurt us more than they already have."

Drumm made to say something, but thinking better of it briefly shook his head. Blacktyde slowly nodded. "For the sake of our people," he said. "I hope so too."

* * *

Laughter filled the room where the Sith Lords were meeting, loud and derisive. Lysus was also present, apprentice as she was to Darth Achaia. Holograms of General Granger and Admiral Horst were also present, while Cipher (17) stood two steps behind and to the side of Maester Qalen.

"…you mean to tell us," Lysus spoke up. "That this…Brandon Stark, willfully and knowingly rushed to the court of a king known for his madness and his penchant for burning people to death, and demanded the head of the king's heir? And more than that his father, Rickard Stark, was it, when summoned to court to explain his son's actions actually stood by his son's demands? They got what they deserved!"

Laughter erupted from the Sith Lords again, though General Granger and Admiral Horst looked uncomfortable while Cipher remained cold as ice. "Such idiocy," Lord Axcis sneered. "Your world, and their people, are better off without such brainless fools running around with power they have no real capacity to wield."

"That said," Darth Achaia began. "The prince who started it all…what was his name again?"

"Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, my lord." Qalen helpfully provided.

"Yes, him." Darth Achaia said with a nod. "He was rather foolish too. If he wanted to abduct a woman, then he should have done so in a way that would never have been traced back to him. His dynasty's fall is entirely on his head, though I'll acknowledge that he died with honor at least, fighting in battle."

The Sith nodded with agreement at that. "This king of yours is fairly impressive though…for a primitive who cannot touch the Force, that is." Darth Achaia continued, again to agreeing nods and murmurs. "As I understand it, he pioneered such tactics as marching at night, and engaging the enemy before they can unite their forces…though his record with regard to politics is mixed."

"Certainly," Lord Felicis said with a nod. "Marrying that western princess and appointing that northern lord as his prime minister shows _some_ degree of capability, but…"

"With respect my lord," Lysus interjected. "From what I understand, the wedding with the western princess was the achievement of said prime minister, and not the king himself. If anything, it seemed he was holding out for the return of that northern princess, and would not have married the western princess otherwise had the northerner not perished."

"A fair point." Lord Felicis said with a nod.

"The westerners are very interesting, though." Lord Axcis said. "Their overlord, this…Tywin Lannister, he's impressively ruthless. As I recall, he butchered a rebellious vassal's entire family shortly after gaining power to assert himself, and later on governed the realm as prime minister until he overreached himself. And even then, he could not be killed by the king, as Lord Lannister was too…influential, to just be executed, only banished back to his holdings."

"And afterwards he engineered the murder of the heirs to the throne," Darth Achaia continued. "And maneuvered his daughter's ascension as queen consort. While it seems he could not become prime minister again…he has plenty of indirect influence at court, between his daughter and son, the latter of which is a member of the royal guard."

Darth Achaia paused to sit back. "This world as a whole will require a governor to govern it under the empire." He said. "We could appoint one of our own…or we can appoint a capable native to do so in His Majesty's Name. Tywin Lannister…very impressive resume…SU-47?"

"Yes, my lord?" the protocol droid recording the proceeding politely asked.

"List down Tywin Lannister as a candidate for the governorship of this world." Darth Achaia said.

"As you wish, my lord."

"The king is a good field commander," Lysus said after a moment. "But as a politician he seems to be something of a fool. On the current prime minister though…scholar, what is his name?"

"Jon Arryn, my lady." Qalen answered.

"Jon Arryn isn't too bad himself." Lysus said. "Not as ruthless as Lannister, but well-respected by the nobility and commoners alike. A skilled diplomat too, if he was able to get the loyalists in the south to acknowledge the new king."

"He is old, however." Lord Axcis said dismissively. "Too old…what's more, he seems to be too soft for the role of the first Imperial Governor of this world. Conquering this world will result in social instability for some time. A ruthless individual such as Lannister would be more fitting for the role."

"That is true." Lysus said with a nod. "It seems I had forgotten that point. My apologies."

"That said," Lord Felicis began. "It seems to me that we're forgetting that Lannister is not in any line of succession. It is his grandchildren who are."

"That is of no concern." Darth Achaia said. "We can either abolish the office directly, or circumvent it, ensuring that our chosen agent will hold real power, regardless of whoever sits on the throne."

Lord Felicis bowed. Darth Achaia tapped his fingers on the table. "At the very least," he said. "We'll need to get rid of the current king and secure his heirs. Once we've done that and secured the capital at King's Landing, we'll have the legal basis to declare the entire western continent as a vassal of the Sith Empire. Anything we do afterwards, be it military occupation, reprisals, and even tactical orbital bombardment, will be done under the umbrella of such a fact. If we even have to go that far, of course."

"With that umbrella in place," Lord Felicis mused. "Subtler methods to ensure control are opened to us."

"Indeed," Darth Achaia said with a nod before sitting up in his seat. "Now then, enough of this history lesson. Let us proceed to our next topic, the invasion of the North."

A holographic map appeared on the table before them. "Tell me, scholar," Darth Achaia began. "Did you send word of our coming before the castle fell?"

The maester's face paled. "Well, I…that is…" he mumbled.

"Answer the question."

Qalen's face paled further, but he took a deep breath, composing himself, like a man facing his death. "I did, my lord." He said.

"To whom and where?"

"I sent three ravens." Qalen said. "One to Casterly Rock and Lord Tywin Lannister, another to Riverrun and Lord Hoster Tully, and a third to Winterfell and Lord Eddard Stark."

"And what did the letters say?"

"That the Iron Islands had been invaded by a force from outside the Seven Kingdoms," Qalen answered. "To prepare defenses, to ask for aid, and finally, to send word to King's Landing as well."

"Good."

Qalen looked stumped, and Darth Achaia smiled. "What, did you think I wanted our coming to be kept secret?" he asked mockingly. "On the contrary, let the king and his vassals gather their armies to be destroyed on the battlefield. Doing so would serve our purpose better than striking swiftly, and overrunning territory where hostile native forces would resort to guerilla war. No, let us demonstrate our superiority and overwhelming might on the battlefield, and remove from the board as much able-bodied men as possible. In doing so we reduce the numbers of those potentially able to move against us in a future, asymmetric war."

The maester still looked lost, but the Sith Lord was ignoring him now. "Primitive armies of decisive size such as we seek to face and destroy will take time to muster, Lord Achaia." General Granger said. "I suggest we invade here, along the southwest of the northern province, and occupy this peninsula. Direct control over the coasts, and patrols in force within the hinterland…"

"We should allow word to spread of our occupation." Lysus added. "That should speed up the northerners."

"Indeed, my lady." General Granger said with a nod. "We should maintain orbital and aerial reconnaissance, and once the enemy marches south, we do as well, though heading north instead of south."

"Would it not be better to simply bombard their army to ash?" Lord Axcis asked.

"It would." General Granger said. "But a ground campaign does have its own advantages. For one thing, as we march north, we demonstrate our power to those natives we pass on a level they can relate to and thus understand. An army marching to victory is easier to understand and accept, in contrast to a foe with no visible force of arms."

"Or they'd simply see it as sorcery of some kind." Lord Axcis said. "After all, we might have no visible force of arms, but we wiped out their army with fire from the sky."

"That could only galvanize resistance, though." Lysus said. "These are primitives, and they likely view such…supposedly sorcerous, displays with fear and suspicion. But if we defeat them in battle, not that we have any chance of losing, we satisfy their honor to an extent and thus subsequently bowing to us would be less painful than it would otherwise be."

Lord Axcis nodded reluctantly. "That is true." He conceded, though he later muttered in Sith about the superstitions of primitives.

"And what happens after we crush the enemy on the field?" Lord Felicis asked.

"We take Winterfell, of course." Darth Achaia said. "Force their lords to bend knee and pledge allegiance to the Emperor, and secure the surrounding province. In the meantime, this will allow their king to gather all his might…"

The Sith Lord paused, before smiling cruelly. "As sacrifices to our victory, of course." He concluded.

The vicious smiles of the other Sith Lords had Qalen shaking, even more so as a glance to his side showed Cipher still as cold as she had been the whole time he'd known her.

* * *

A/N

Lysus and the Sith are cruel, no? Laughing at how Rickard and Brandon Stark died…but, while I agree their deaths were unnecessarily cruel, there's no question they brought it down on themselves. In medieval Europe, threatening the life of a member of a royal family, with or without reason, was grounds for summary execution. Hell, even in our modern, democratic, and liberal twenty-first century, threatening the life of a head of state or those of his family would still warrant a 'shoot first, ask questions later' response from their bodyguards. The Secret Service has such a policy as far as I know.

 _Tywin Lannister_ as governor not just of Westeros but of the whole planet…what do you think? Are you scared yet? Or do you think he won't accept?


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Wars: The Old Republic_ , which is the property of BioWare and LucasArts. Neither do I own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , which is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Falling Shadows

Chapter 3

Winterfell, the ancestral seat of House Stark. Thousands of years ago, long before the coming of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, the Stark Kings of Winter ruled their domains from Winterfell. In time, all the North bent knee before House Stark, who claimed for themselves the title of the Kings in the North.

Even with the coming of Aegon the Conqueror and the unification of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, House Stark continued to govern the North in the new kings' names. No longer as kings, but as Lords of Winterfell and Wardens and Lords Paramount of the North…but as always, Winterfell remained their home, and the seat of their power.

That did not change, no matter the passing of time, and never would.

In his study, the incumbent Lord of Winterfell, Warden and Lord Paramount of the North, Lord Eddard 'Ned' Stark met his adviser, Maester Luwin. Also present were Winterfell's steward, Vayon Poole, and the castle's master-of-arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel. The topic to be pondered was the letter that had arrived from Pyke, speaking of the coming of foreign invaders, warning of the need to prepare defenses, to ask for aid, and finally, asking to inform the king and his council at King's Landing of what had transpired.

Ned stayed silent in his seat, while those present argued among themselves.

"…I understand how you feel Ser Rodrik," Luwin was saying. "But this matter is a serious one, and we cannot and must not make decisions lightly. We must consider it with due weight, and act rationally in response."

"Rationally?" Rodrik growled. "Rationally, is it? Alright, you want rational I'll give you rational."

"Peace, ser, I merely…"

"This is what I think." Rodrik cut the old man off. "Fighting _has_ erupted on Pyke, _but_ not because of an invasion. No, it's more that those damn Ironborn have started fighting among themselves, between the followers of Balon Greyjoy who was made to bend knee before King Robert, and those who did not want to bend knee. At the time the latter went along as they had no strength left to force the matter, but now that they've recovered to some extent, they decided to make their move. Starting by dealing with the man who bent knee, their own lord and the man who should – in their eyes – have defended his kingship to the death, Balon Greyjoy. And that man had his maester exaggerate the situation, screaming about foreign invasion in a bid to get the help he needs to keep his lordship as he is too weak to put the rebels down on his own."

"And then what?" Vayon asked. "Let's assume for a moment the Ironborn are indeed fighting among themselves between whether they should continue to submit to the Iron Throne, or again go their own way with a king of their own…if so, shouldn't we intervene on the side of the former? If the latter win, the Ironborn will likely resume the rebellion from three years ago."

"If we act now," Luwin agreed. "We could nip a new rebellion in the bud, and earn the gratitude of Lord Greyjoy. Assuming of course, he still lives."

Ned looked at Luwin at that. "What do you mean by that, Luwin?" he asked.

The maester stepped closer, and removing the letter from Pyke from where he'd kept it with other letters in a book, handed it to Ned. "Observe, my lord." Luwin said, using a finger to point out certain letters and phrases. "The way it is written, how the letters are improperly drawn at times, and here and there how the ink is barely enough for the writing to be legible. Observe the grammar missing the proper punctuation marks and the like…"

"This was written in haste." Ned concluded, and Luwin nodded.

"I believe so, my lord." He said. "It may be that the rebels or invaders attacked Pyke without warning, and my fellow maester rushed to prepare and send this letter before the attackers could reach his sanctum and prevent him from sending word and calling for aid."

"Could have been faked deliberately…" Rodrik growled, and Ned shot him a reproachful look.

"That's enough, Ser Rodrik." He said, and with a small bow the knight subsided.

Ned sat back in his seat, holding the letter with one hand and using the other to stroke his chin in thought. On one hand, much like Ser Rodrik following the Greyjoy Rebellion barely three years ago, he had little sympathy for the Ironborn.

On the other hand, though…if it was a foreign invasion, then not taking action now would only embolden the invaders. It would make the Seven Kingdoms look weak, encouraging the invaders to press on. If it was a rebellion though, a rebellion of those who had wanted to continue fighting despite their lord's bending knee before the Iron Throne…then the Seven Kingdoms would face yet another onslaught from the Ironborn.

Ned sighed unhappily. " _If they rise up again,_ " he thought. " _It won't go any different from the last time. No…it'll be worse for the Ironborn than the last time, seeing as they've barely rebuilt since. And I doubt Robert will be as merciful in the aftermath of yet another rebellion…_ "

Ned shook his head as he let his thoughts trail off. It was just…difficult, for him to understand, how some of his peers could be so callous and uncaring of the plight of their own people, the people who looked to them for leadership and to ensure the safety and wellbeing of their livelihoods, when it came to sacrificing them for the sake of their own ambitions.

"I suggest a compromise." Ned finally said. "We don't know whether or not it's truly an invasion or a simple rebellion that Lord Greyjoy exaggerated to call for aid. Even if it is the latter and it has succeeded, the infighting may have weakened the Ironborn sufficiently for cooler heads to prevail, and peace can still be maintained."

"But?" Rodrik pressed, and Ned nodded.

"If not," he said. "Or this is an invasion, then we need to be prepared. No, Rodrik, I won't call the banners…yet. Luwin?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"Send ravens to the lords along the west and south of the North." Ned ordered. "Tell them what has happened on Pyke, what it might be, and have them prepare defenses. Also, send word to King's Landing, and inform the king and his council that is my opinion that we should take a cautious stance with regard to this matter."

"Yes, my lord."

Ned paused to consider matters further before nodding. "It's possible Robert and his council aren't aware of the situation either." He said. "Just in case, describe this matter in the letter as well."

"Yes, my lord."

Ned nodded and sat back, tapping his fingers against his desk for a few moments. Finally, he sighed. "In any case," he said. "We don't have a fleet of our own to take action right now, even if we did call our banners. And we're not sure if that might be necessary either…or even to just send scouts to see what might be happening."

"The Lannisters might." Vayon pointed out.

Ned made a face. He'd never been comfortable with Lord Tywin Lannister's naked ambition and veiled plots to gain power at court, starting with the marriage between his daughter Cersei and Robert…no, even before that, the unspeakable deaths of Princess Elia and her children by order of Lord Lannister had poisoned the man's reputation to Ned.

That Jon Arryn and Robert had allowed it to pass – the latter even going so far as to sneer at the children's corpses and to dismiss them as mere 'dragonspawn' – had nearly led Ned to break off all ties with his old friend and brother in all but name. Only their shared grief at Lyanna's death had preserved their friendship, and even then Ned had lost any and all interest beyond the bare minimum as to the lands and affairs beyond the North.

Nevertheless…and going back to the present, this matter seemed to fall in that bare minimum.

"They might." Ned conceded. "Very well…send ravens to Casterly Rock as well. Inform Lord Lannister about this matter – assuming he doesn't know already – and request that he send ships to scout out the Iron Islands and how the matter might have developed."

"Yes, my lord." Luwin said with a nod.

Ned nodded, and taking a deep breath looked around. "If there is nothing more," he said. "Then we're done with this matter."

* * *

The ravens had flown from Winterfell before the day came to an end. One headed for King's Landing, another to Casterly Rock, and others to the houses which called the shores of the Sunset Sea, Blazewater Bay, and Ironman's Bay, home.

The coastal lords did as their overlord at Winterfell commanded, having the towns and villages muster militias even as the lords assembled their knights and men-at-arms to prepare for an onslaught by sea. Whether they be foreign invaders or rebellious Ironborn, the attackers would not find the North unprepared for their coming.

Two days and nights passed without incident. On the morning of the third day, they came. Imperial shuttles landed out of sight of towns and villages along the coast, and disembarked soldiers and crawlers. Within an hour of landing, Imperial soldiers were advancing at company strength on dozens of towns and villages all at once across the peninsula to the west of what the natives called the Neck.

Militia rushed to defend against the invaders, but generally surrendered after putting up only token resistance, breaking after one or two volleys from Imperial guns. The lords put up more resistance, knights attempting to flank the Imperials only to be gunned down by disciplined volleys from vehicle-mounted automatic weapons, or interlocking fields of fire from Imperial soldiers.

Men-at-arms crumbled against repeated strafing runs from _Supremacy_ fighters punctuated by bombing runs by _Extinction_ bombers. The same went for the lords' castles, which typically surrendered after one or two bombing and strafing runs.

This came as a surprise for the Imperials, as their experiences on the Iron Islands – with a few exceptions – had led them to believe they would need to storm the castles to force their lords' surrender. In this new theater however, the lords typically surrendered after their small forces were routed on the field, and their castles shaken by bombing runs.

For all that they surrendered though, the lords refused to submit to the Sith Empire. They considered themselves prisoners of war, demanding treatment due to their station, but ultimately still saw themselves as vassals of the Iron Throne and – more importantly the Sith suspected – of House Stark of Winterfell.

"…satisfied for now with their surrender." Darth Achaia said to General Granger. "Once House Stark swears allegiance to His Majesty, the lords will follow suit. And in any case, the Iron Throne will soon submit to His Majesty as well."

"As you say, my lord." General Granger said with a nod. "And we did expect this reaction from the minor lords. Indeed, as I might recall, our objective to subjugate this continent is in fact to coopt the feudal pyramid, by either subjugating or replacing the upper levels of the pyramid. The masses and minor lords will simply follow those above, as they always have."

"Indeed, general." Darth Achaia said, his hologram flickering from minor electromagnetic interference caused by the planet's ionosphere. "Proceed with the predetermined occupation procedures."

"Yes, my lord."

'Predetermined occupation procedures' being once the lords had surrendered, the local villagers and townsfolk were released from detainment, and allowed to continue their lives as they see fit. A curfew had been considered, but was ultimately not imposed. The militias were disbanded, however the lords themselves along with the surviving men-at-arms and knights were disarmed and detained aboard the Imperial fleet.

The lords each had their own quarters, and were allowed to meet and dine with each other, and had been assigned junior officers as liaisons and to answer any questions they might have. In contrast, the men-at-arms and knights were detained in the warships' brigs, though no torture or castigation was inflicted, and they were looked after as prisoners of war.

Of course, this was only until a certain point. If they continued to refuse to swear allegiance to the Sith Empire past a certain – yet to be determined – point, then it was likely they'd be sold off as slaves. Already, cautious feelers were being sent to Zygerrian slavers the empire had dealt with in the past and still did in the present, as they were considered…more reliable, and even trustworthy, in contrast to the Hutt Cartel.

"Reconnaissance indicates that Lord Stark has begun to gather an army at Winterfell." Darth Achaia continued. "As planned, we'll let him do so, while gathering our own forces. But once he moves south, you know what to do, general."

"Indeed, I do, my lord." General Granger said. "The forces under my command will advance north, crush the enemy, and take their castle. House Stark will be made to submit, and with their submission the entire northern province will be under our control."

Darth Achaia nodded. "Field command is yours, general." He said. "I and others will join you for the attack on Winterfell, but until then, I leave everything to you and the Imperial Army."

"We will not disappoint, my lord." General Granger said, drawing himself up. "The honor of the Imperial Army will not be stained."

"So be it."

General Granger bowed low as the hologram faded away, and then rising the general walked out of the communications tent. Squinting his eyes at the bright noon light, the general blinked a few times until his eyes adjusted, and then climbing up a hill observed the work ongoing below.

The general had personally led landing operations at the mouth of the Fever River, which fed into the Saltspear, an inlet which cut into the west of the northern province. No resistance was met, with what few villages there were in the region not offering any resistance whatsoever.

Already, General Granger's staff officers were organizing patrols, both security ones along the perimeter, and patrols in force into the interior. Engineers were already bringing in heavy equipment to drain the marshy ground, after which prefabricated permacrete flooring would be laid down for landing pads, motor pools, utility and prefabricated housing for the troops to be brought in, as well as storage space for supplies and equipment. A physical perimeter wall would also be set up then, making use of prefabricated duraplast walls with durasteel reinforcement and external durasteel plating, incorporating searchlights and gates. Watch towers would also be raised, incorporating more searchlights, scopes, and motion sensors.

The landing site, codenamed Fever Point, would be the staging area for the Imperial invasion of the North. General Granger was assembling a full mechanized corps for the march on Winterfell, including an armored division and two mechanized infantry divisions. All together they'd have an estimated forty-five thousand men between them, along with two hundred and forty tanks. And that number didn't include other vehicles, or artillery pieces, or support personnel.

Against primitives, it was admittedly overkill, especially when air support was factored in, but with the Imperial war plans calling for 'shock and awe' to drive home to the natives the power of the empire, it was only necessary. Ironically, this force would in fact be considered under-gunned against a comparable force from the Galactic Republic, whether at present or during the recent Great Galactic War, as it lacked reinforcing artillery brigades that the Sith Empire had learned to attach to their mechanized infantry and armored divisions following repeated setbacks during advances in the Mid Rim.

All in all, the engineers were expected to be finished in two weeks, after which the mechanized corps would be brought down from orbit. It would then take another seventy-two hours at most to organize and prepare to move out, with supplies to be constantly ferried down from orbit to Fever Point, and then moved by crawler overland to the advancing Imperial forces.

In any case, given the vast geography of the northern province, plus the poor and primitive infrastructure of the region, the enemy would take just as long to gather their troops and supplies, and then march south. And if they gathered and began to march sooner than expected…

…well, it was galling in some ways to not do things properly and as planned, but the empire could and would adapt to achieve victory.

* * *

King's Landing, the second-largest city in the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and the most important. It was after all, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, being the site of the Red Keep, home to the king and his family and seat of the Small Council which oversaw the government of the Seven Kingdoms. The city was also the site of the Great Sept, home to the High Septon and the Most Devout, leaders of the Faith. The city was also a major port, not just for coastal trade up and down and across Blackwater Bay, but along the eastern coast of Westeros and across the Narrow Sea to the Free Cities along the western coast of Essos.

The Small Council was composed of seven members, not including the king. Indeed, King Robert Baratheon rarely if ever attended council meetings, and only for the most important matters, entrusting the governance of the realm to his Hand, while spending his time in leisurely activities such as hunting, feasting, drinking, and whoring.

The Hand of the King was Lord Jon Arryn, who also held the titles Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East. Other council members included Ser Barristan 'the Bold' Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands as Master of Laws, Lord Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish of the Fingers as Master of Coin, and Prince Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone as Master of Ships. There was also Varys, the Master of Whispers, and Pycelle, the Grand Maester.

The topic at hand today was the invasion of the so-called Sith Empire, as spies within the Iron Islands had informed the Small Council. Originally, when the raven came from Pyke the Small Council had ignored the plea for help and warning to prepare defenses, and indeed, the king had not been told. At the time, it was judged the Ironborn had simply fallen into infighting, and that Lord Balon Greyjoy was exaggerating the situation to obtain help to support his rule, help that the Small Council had little sympathy to give given Balon's recent uprising.

Granted, there was the risk that his successor would also rise in revolt, and while that _was_ a concern, it was ultimately decided that if they did, they'd have the excuse to put the Ironborn down for good. And if they did not, that is cooler heads prevailed after the infighting came to an end, then the crown would have lost nothing by doing nothing.

Even with word from Winterfell that the North was preparing defenses and urging the council to be cautious changed nothing. Only when news came that the invaders had seized the southwest of the North, blocked only from advancing further by the marshes of the Neck and were instead gathering an army at the mouth of the Fever had things changed on the council…

…including finally letting the king know of how things were developing.

"I trust you to keep the realm running smoothly, Jon." Robert growled as he seethed at the head of the table. "Not to hide things from me."

"Robert, I wasn't hiding things from you." Jon replied, the only man in the Seven Kingdoms who'd address the king so familiarly in such a setting, as the man's foster father. "I just thought that until we knew more there'd be no point in telling you. And at the time we thought the Greyjoys were just dealing with an uprising from those of their vassals who were left dissatisfied at losing the rebellion from three years ago."

"Yes, and look where we are now." Robert snapped before taking a deep breath. "Look, I'm sorry Jon, but I can't help but feel betrayed right now. I know you had the best intentions, but I needed to know."

Jon sighed and nodded. "Yes, I suppose you did." He admitted. "And I'm sorry for thinking otherwise."

Robert nodded in acceptance. "In any case," he said. "We've wasted enough time, so let's not waste any more by throwing blame around. Ned's called his banners, and while I think Ned can handle this on his own, we should be ready to help him if he needs it."

There were nods all around at that, though Littlefinger looked a little concerned. "What's the matter, Baelish?" Robert asked gruffly.

"There is the matter of cost, Your Grace." Littlefinger said. "To assemble an army from across the Seven Kingdoms much like during the recent Greyjoy Rebellion…it can be done, but I'll have to cut back on other expenditures for the rest of the year to keep us solvent."

"Write it up and then show it to Jon." Robert said with a wave of a hand. "Jon, give me the rundown once Baelish is done. As far as I'm concerned though, if it involves helping Ned and keeping my kingdoms safe, then it's just a matter of counting coppers."

Jon looked a bit skeptical, but he nodded regardless. "Send word to all the Seven Kingdoms," Robert said. "Tell all the lords to call their banners to prepare to help Ned fight off these foreign invaders, or to do so ourselves in case they strike elsewhere. We'll gather our army at Harrenhal, and once we've gathered all our strength, we march north."

"About that," Stannis spoke up. "Is it wise to gather all our strength in one place?"

"What?" Robert asked.

"You yourself said the enemy might attack someplace else apart from the North." Stannis said. "If we gather all our strength at one place, it'd leave the entire west coast undefended."

"Point," Robert conceded. "What do you suggest then?"

"Have the West and the Reach gather their banners," Stannis said. "But don't have the former join us, and only have a part of the latter do so. Even if we can't count on the West's army and much of the Reach's, we still have the Crownlands, the Stormlands, Dorne, the Vale, and the Riverlands to call on in their entirety."

"That's not a bad idea." Robert said with approval. "Very well, we'll take it up."

Stannis bowed slightly in acceptance. "Won't Dorne be left defenseless, though?" Hoster asked.

"Western Dorne is mountainous terrain, my lord." Pycelle answered. "And behind it is a vast desert, that even the Targaryens at the height of their power failed to conquer. If the invaders invade Dorne, the sand will kill most of them, and what the desert doesn't kill the remaining Dornish will."

There were nods all around at that, but Stannis looked thoughtful. "Perhaps it might also be useful if we sent part of the Royal Fleet west, to join with the Redwyne Fleet and the Lannister Fleet." He mused. "We know the invaders come from the west, from across the Sunset Sea, and are using the Iron Islands as a stepping stone to attack the North from. If we can blockade or retake the Iron Islands, the invading army would be cut off, and can defeated quicker."

"Won't the Redwyne Fleet be enough?" Littlefinger asked. "Moving the Royal Fleet will be quite expensive…"

"As His Grace previously said," Stannis interrupted. "In the defense of the realm, cost is not that important a concern. We'll just have to make up the deficit after the invaders are beaten off."

Littlefinger bowed his concession. "Lord Baelish has a point," Jon said while stroking his beard before shaking his head. "But, I would prefer to be prudent. Perhaps if the Lannister Fleet had been fully rebuilt…but it has not. As Prince Stannis suggests, we should move the Royal Fleet, leaving only enough to secure the Blackwater, and have them join with the fleets from the Reach and the West."

Robert nodded in agreement. "I'll admit I don't know much about fighting at sea," he said. "So I'll trust Stannis' judgment in this. Whether he starves the invaders on the Iron Islands out or he retakes them on his own…I'll leave it to him."

Stannis bowed again, and after a moment Varys coughed. "If it pleases my lords," he said. "While my spies on the Iron Islands have yet to completely recover from the invasion, they have sent two pieces of information."

"Let's hear it then." Robert said, sitting back on his chair.

"Admittedly they are not very useful," Varys said apologetically while pushing a piece of parchment across the table. "The first being the invaders' emblem."

The king and his council looked at the emblem drawn on the parchment, that of a hexagon with broken lines running along the inner edges, and six arrows radiating out from the center. "What does it mean?" Barristan asked.

"I do not know." Varys said. "Still, we now have an image to associate with these invaders, and it is more useful than the second piece of information sent by my spies."

"And that is?" Jon prompted.

The eunuch looked uncomfortable, something that had the king and other councilors raising eyebrows of surprise and amusement. "My spies claim the invaders have…flying machines." Varys said before shaking his head. "I fear they've either been compromised, or sent this information as mere makework."

"Or while drunk or something similar…" Stannis growled. "Flying machines…bah! If men could fly, the gods would have granted them wings."

"Or dragons." Littlefinger said with a smile, though he coughed as disapproving eyes went his way.

"I apologize, my lords." Varys said with a bow. "It seems I need to put more attention on my remaining informers, to ensure they send useful and believable information in the future."

"Do so." Jon said with a nod. "Though it's not all bad. We do have confirmation that we are facing foreign invaders, where they're coming from, and finally an image to associate with them. Granted, the last is fairly symbolic, but at least the enemy aren't complete unknowns either. Men fear the unknown, and we must acknowledge as such."

There were nods all around. Robert looked at his councilors, and then nodded again. "Alright then," he said. "If there's nothing more, then we all have work to do. So let's get to it."

* * *

A/N

I made Hoster Tully Master of Laws because there didn't seem anyone else they'd trust for the post. I know that by 298 AC Renly was Master of Laws, but in 293 AC he'd only be sixteen years old…too young for the post. The Tyrells and the Martells aren't trusted by Robert and the rest of his allies, Jon's wary of letting the Lannisters get more influence than they already have, Ned has no interest in the south…so Hoster Tully it is then.

A mechanized corps against the North is without a doubt overkill, but when it comes to shock and awe, it's perfect.


	5. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Wars: The Old Republic_ , which is the property of BioWare and LucasArts. Neither do I own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , which is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Falling Shadows

Chapter 4

Outside the walls of Winterfell, the army of the North was encamped. Lines of tents stretched out across the cold lands of the North, along with paddocks for horses and other beasts of burden. Wagons were parked alongside neatly-piled crates of food and other supplies, and countless campfires could be seen burning across the camp.

The warriors of the North were all over their camp, most seated outside their tents or around their campfires, while others went to and fro on business. Some tended their weapons and armor. Others ate and drank heartily, exchanging stories and news, enjoying themselves and basking in the camaraderie of brothers-in-arms in this brief moment of peace before the order came to march to battle. Others supervised the gathering of supplies, of tending to the horses and other beasts of burden, and other matters that needed attending to for an army to function as it should.

All this was visible from the high towers of Winterfell, and Ned's sons amused themselves by staring out from one such tower and looking out over their people's gathered might in awe. Elsewhere in the castle though, Ned was meeting with several of his lords.

"Thirty thousand men," Ned said while sitting back in his seat in his study. "More or less…it's a solid number."

"Indeed it is." Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort agreed. "However, we have no numbers for the invaders gathering at the mouth of the Fever, or to the west of the Neck."

"Perhaps it might be wise to await the king's coming." Luwin suggested. "The latest news from the south has indicated that His Grace has left King's Landing accompanied by about thirteen thousand men, and will meet with fifty thousand men from the Riverlands at Harrenhal. The Vale lords will also commit an army of that size, which brings up the Royal Army to well over a hundred thousand."

"What of the rest of the Seven Kingdoms?" Lord Jon 'the Greatjon' Umber of the Last Hearth asked. "Will they be sending their banners as well? I would think when we're being invaded they would, but you never know with the southrons."

"Peace, Lord Umber." Ned said before turning to Luwin. "Though, that is a very good question. Maester?"

"The other kingdoms have called their banners." Luwin replied. "However the king has been unwilling to leave the west coast completely undefended by gathering all available strength to him. The West will therefore gather their strength in their lands, and will not be sending any to join the Royal Army."

"Prudent," Ned said with an approving nod. "Given the invaders are coming from across the Sunset Sea. What of the Reach and Dorne?"

"Both have also called their banners," Luwin said. "However, while the greater part of the Reach's strength is expected to remain in their lands, they have been required by His Grace to contribute to the Royal Army. Dorne, given the nature of their lands, is expected to send all their strength to join His Grace on the field."

Ned frowned at that. "The reasoning is understandable," he said. "But I wonder if Prince Doran will agree to leave his lands completely undefended. While I do not think he will completely ignore his obligations to the Iron Throne, it is likely he will follow the Reach's example, royal expectations or not."

"His Grace will not be pleased." Roose observed.

"Probably not," Ned said with a nod. "But if so, then I will take it upon myself to defend Prince Doran's decision."

That came as a surprise to those present. "That's rather…surprising, coming from you, my lord." the Greatjon remarked cautiously.

"Because of House Martell's closeness with House Targaryen during and before the rebellion?" Ned asked, and the other lords nodded. Ned sighed before answering. "House Targaryen…no, Rhaegar and his father did my family great wrongs. I know that better than anyone else, and absolutely nothing will change that. But, what was done to Rhaegar's wife and children…it was absolutely and utterly unforgiveable in the eyes of both gods and men."

Ned paused and sighed again before shaking his head. "By all rights," he continued. "House Martell is justified in their hatred and resentment, even more so as the ones behind Princess Elia and her children's deaths escaped justice, and with Robert and Jon's unspoken blessing no less. The gods could not have faulted them if they refused to bend knee afterwards, and fought to the bitter and bloody end, seeking vengeance for their kin's deaths."

The Greatjon snorted at that. "A fine and worthy end it would have been," he said. "But an end it would have been regardless. And for what? A sickly woman and…"

He trailed off at the cold and hard eyes of his lord, and after a moment he bowed slightly in apology. "Men have the right to vengeance against wrongs done to them, and to their kin." Ned said coldly. "I did for my father, my brother, and my sister. The gods grant me that much…and to Prince Doran and his brother and the rest of their kin for Elia and her children. Who are we to deny them as such?"

The lords were silent for a long moment, and then Ned sighed and shook his head. "But they did not." He said. "For the sake of peace, for the sake of the lives which would otherwise have ended by prolonging the war, Prince Doran chose to swallow his pride and bend knee. That alone deserves respect. But that does not mean they have forgiven or forgotten what was done, and they probably never will. And I cannot bring myself to condemn them for it."

"So then, my lord," Luwin said. "For that reason, should His Grace grow offended by Prince Doran withholding part of his strength to defend his lands, you would defend him?"

"Indeed," Ned said with a nod. "It's a small thing, and does little if any at all to finally give the shades of Elia and her children peace, but I would heal what little I can regardless of the rift between Dorne and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms."

Seeing as their lord would not budge any further on the matter, the lords and the maester merely bowed. "Going back to matters of the war," Lord Rickard Karstark of Karhold began. "Will we await the coming of the Royal Army, or will we make the first move on our own?"

"Awaiting the coming of the Royal Army would allow us time in which more distant lords and their banners would join us." Roose pointed out.

"Ten thousand more men are expected to arrive within the next fortnight, my lord." Luwin added.

Ned tapped his fingers on his desk for a few moments in thought. "Any more news from the south?" he finally asked.

"Still no word on how much of their strength the Reach and Dorne will send to join His Grace," Luwin elaborated. "However, Prince Stannis is apparently leading two hundred ships south from King's Landing, and journeying around Dorne will join up with the Redwyne and Lannister Fleets before striking at the Iron Islands."

Roose nodded in approval, as did Rickard. "That makes sense." The former said. "We know the invaders are using the Iron Islands to attack from. They've probably amassed their supplies there, along with men held in reserve in case the force along the west of our lands needs speedy reinforcement. If Prince Stannis can take them out, it will be massive help to us."

"And without the Iron Islands," Rickard added. "The invaders will have to bring in supplies and reinforcements directly from their homeland across the Sunset Sea to our shores. It will be more difficult that way, compared to having the Iron Islands as a stepping stone to do so from."

"If they even can." Roose said. "If Prince Stannis can take the Iron Islands, then his fleet can use the islands as a base to strike from, and keep the invaders from bringing in more supplies and men from across the Sunset Sea."

"Yes, indeed." Rickard said with a nod. "There is that too."

Ned nodded in agreement, and again tapped his desk with his fingers in thought. "As I recall," he eventually said. "Lord Howland Reed and the crannogmen are skirmishing with the invaders along the edges of the Neck, are they not?"

"They are, my lord." Luwin confirmed with a nod.

Ned nodded and made his decision. "While it would be more prudent to await the Royal Army and the rest of our banners," he said. "We cannot just sit still here at Winterfell when we have a solid number of men ready to march and fight, and when others of our people are already fighting the invaders. Give the word: tomorrow, we march to meet the enemy gathered at the Fever's mouth."

"Yes my lord." Luwin said with a bow.

"The rest of our banners which have yet to arrive will remain here, at Winterfell." Ned said. "They'll stay in reserve, and either join us at our call should it become necessary, or will march south and join the Royal Army once they cross the causeway and pass Moat Cailin."

"I'll have the orders sent within the hour." Rodrik said, and Ned nodded.

"Make it so." He said. "As for ourselves, we'll march south, across the Barrowlands, towards the mouth of the Fever. I do not think the enemy will wait for us to come to them, as indeed, doing so would only trap them against the river and the Saltspear."

"Assuming they're smart enough to realize that." The Greatjon said. "They did come and pick a fight with us, after all."

"So did the Andals thousands of years ago." Ned pointed out. "I will give the enemy knowing enough to fight without being trapped in a corner. So I'll expect them to fight us to the south of the Barrowlands. There we'll either defeat them and end this part of the war all at once, or maul them enough to keep them from pushing onward until the king arrives. Then hopefully, we can bring this war to an end before too many lives are lost and lands ruined."

There were nods all around, though some, such as Roose Bolton and the Greatjon, looked skeptical that the war would be quick. For the sake of his people and that of the rest of the Seven Kingdoms though, Ned hoped he was right.

"If there is nothing more," he continued. "Then you may take your leave."

The lords and the maester bowed, and then turning, left Ned alone in his study. For a few moments, he sat in his seat, and then rising, walked to a window and looked out at the army gathered outside of Winterfell.

 _I hope it will be enough._

* * *

Harrenhal, a ruined castle located in the south of the Riverlands. Built by Harren the Black, last of the Kings of Isles and Rivers of House Hoare, it was the largest castle ever built in the entirety of Westeros.

Against the fiery breath of Balerion the Black Dread, dragon mount of Aegon the Conqueror, it was as nothing. In a single night of fire and death, the castle, and all who dwelt within, including Harren and his family, were reduced to flaming ruins and smoking corpses.

So much death and destruction in a single night…it is said to have cursed Harrenhal, and indeed, any and all named lords of the ruined castle and its surrounding lands have met terrible and tragic fates in the centuries since.

For all that, however, Harrenhal continues to brood over a key portion of the Riverlands, and this has made it the rallying point for armies passing to and from the Crownlands and the Riverlands over that same time. Indeed, it is here that the Royal Army has gathered its strength, tens of thousands assembled under the banner of King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Faith.

The sound of metal striking the ground and bouncing away echoed in Robert's tent, the king throwing a wine-filled goblet against the ground in his rage. "Treacherous snakes!" he thundered. "Filthy dragonspawn lovers! Cowardly oathbreakers who can't even say their treachery up front! When we're done here, those traitors will have a reckoning, mark my words!"

Jon Arryn closed his eyes in resignation. The cause of Robert's anger was simple: though the Reach and Dorne had called their banners, they had refused to contribute any strength at all to the Royal Army. Both claimed they did so only after the West's example, with Lord Tywin Lannister having kept his forty thousand-strong army in his own lands to protect against an invasion from the sea.

At first glance, it was a valid excuse, with the Reach even having moved their army of nearly a hundred thousand to their western regions to protect against an invasion from the sea. It might seem excessive, and it was, but given the known character of Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden, High Marshall of the Reach and Warden of the South, it was nothing surprising.

Dorne though…they had indeed gathered their army, between twenty to thirty thousand-strong according to Varys' latest reports from King's Landing. However, Prince Doran was claiming that their losses during Robert's Rebellion, and their contributions to putting down the Greyjoy Rebellion, had left Dorne a shadow of its might, with barely ten thousand men able to take to the field, all of whom would be needed to defend against a possible invasion from the sea.

The fact that the numbers obtained by Varys were so vastly different from those provided by Prince Doran of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear, made it clear it was all a ruse. Even more so, as the army of Dorne wasn't even positioned to the west, with the exception of those belonging to the lords of western Dorne, and considerable reserves provided by their prince. No, the bulk of Dorne's forces were positioned to defend against invasion from the north, along the Dornish Marches, facing the Reach and the Stormlands.

And there was also the fact that Prince Doran had never forgiven Robert and his allies for allowing the murders of Princess Elia and her children to go unpunished. The intent was clear: Dorne was prepared to abandon the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.

If the invaders won, Dorne would use its neutrality in the conflict, and their near-invulnerability to invasion as bargaining chips to win some concessions from the invaders. If they lost, then the losses taken by the rest of the Seven Kingdoms might give Dorne a good chance to successfully rebel and finally gain the vengeance they long sought…especially since it looked as though the Reach just might swing their way as well.

And that did not factor in the remaining Targaryen loyalists in the Crownlands, or even the Stormlands, the Riverlands, the Vale, or indeed, across nearly all the Seven Kingdoms, with the exceptions of the West and the North. If Dorne and the Reach rebelled at their full strength, and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms had been worn down, they had a very good chance to place Viserys Targaryen on the Iron Throne, and thus cast down the fledgling Baratheon Dynasty.

" _There was no other choice._ " Jon thought to himself. " _Elia and Rhaenys' deaths were unnecessary, true, as women cannot claim the Iron Throne. But Aegon…for Robert to rule, for the sake of peace and justice, the boy **had** to die. So did his father, and grandfather. As for letting all their deaths, even Elia and Rhaenys', and the sheer brutality of it all to go unpunished…again, for the sake of peace, and Robert's rule, justice had to be sacrificed. No…not justice…what would have been unjust would have been prolonging the war by antagonizing the Lannisters. Lord Lannister would not have stopped seeking to see his daughter as queen…how many more would have died, how much more would the realm have bled, had Elia and Rhaenys' deaths not been allowed to pass…there was no other way…_"

Jon opened his eyes with a deep breath, wincing at a sharp and tugging pain in his chest. Thumping at it firmly a few times, Jon reached out for a goblet of his own. Ignoring the pain which refused to go away, Jon poured himself some wine and made to drink, even as Robert continued to rant on about the treachery of Houses Martell and Tyrell.

And then he choked on his drink, as he saw two ghostly figures staring bitterly at him. Princess Elia, her clothes torn and covered in blood along with her face, holding a bundle that hung limp in her arms even as it dripped with blood. Beside her stood Princess Rhaenys, dripping with blood from the countless wounds that tore through her clothes and into her flesh.

" _This…this cannot be…by the gods…this is…_ " Jon thought to himself, dropping his goblet and spilling his wine even as the pain in his chest worsened.

" _Darkness comes for you._ " Princess Elia said softly, in a voice only Jon could hear. " _As it does for everything and everyone you hold dear, exactly as you deserve. Darkness…only darkness…forever…_ "

" _No…it wasn't…I…we just…_ " Jon struggled to say, but he couldn't, only clutching at his chest as the pain continued to worsen. He could barely register eyes turning to him and words spoken in concern, Robert rushing over as he noticed something was going terribly wrong. Darkness crept into the edges of Jon's vision, and then Princess Rhaenys opened her mouth.

An unearthly, ghastly wail of utter pain and despair came forth, and darkness fell over all of Jon's sight as he felt his strength leave him.

And then he knew nothing more.

* * *

Maesters rushed through the corridors of the Citadel, to the one room where acolytes would meditate in to prepare for their investiture as full-fledged maesters. There, glass candles brought from across the sea before the Doom of Valyria were kept, and in the darkness the acolytes would meditate on the nature of ignorance and knowledge, forbidden from bringing any form of light with them…unless they could light the glass candles, that it.

They never could, for all that many had tried.

Indeed, the maesters believed that the candles would never be lit, for they were forged by magic, and could only be lit by magic. Magic that was now gone from the world, its last embers in the Valyrian Freehold snuffed out by the Doom. For the better indeed, according to the eldest and most learned maesters.

Now, however…

…the glass candles _burned_ with sorcerous fire. Maesters and archmaesters alike stared in shock and fear as the glass candles kept in the room shone bright, giving off unnaturally brilliant and vivid light. Snow-white, golden-yellow, flame-red…and darkness so deep they were as holes in reality, pits of absolute nothingness.

Not one of the maesters and archmaesters present dared look for long into the sorcerous flames…save for one. One archmaester pushed forward, Valyrian steel shining bright on the chain he wore around his neck, at the ring he wore on a finger, the rod he carried, and the mask he wore on his face.

Marwyn, called the Mage, Archmaester of the Citadel, and the most learned among them when it came to the matters of the arcane, much to his peers' disdain. A disdain that now proved misplaced, as the glass candles burned entirely of their own accord.

Marwyn approached, and staring into the light, he _saw_.

 _…horseless chariots thundered across a grassy field, fire leaping from lance-like weapons that tore through men and the earth in showers of smoke and ruin…_

 _…hugely-armored soldiers rushed down burning streets, clutching armless crossbows that shot fire and killed goldcloaks with a single shot…_

 _…armored figures cloaked in black wielding swords of crimson light carved through knights and goldcloaks alike, molten sparks flying as corpses and broken swords fell..._

 _…lightning flew from a gold-eyed sorcerer at unseen foes, as he stood in a ruined city of black stone which sucked in the light…_

 _…a young woman stood overlooking the cold lands of the North in winter, dark hair flying in the breeze…_

 _…lightning crackled up and down a staff of metal with twin blades of crimson light…_

 _…the woman turned…golden eyes stared deep into Marwyn's own and struck at his soul…_

Marwyn blinked, and then reaching forward, picked up the glass candle to the disbelieving gasps of his fellows. Delving into his memory, Marwyn spoke a single word in High Valyrian.

" _Stop._ "

At that the glass candle flared, and then went dim, before finally fading away to nothingness. Smiling, Marwyn turned to face his ashen-faced peers.

"It seems," he began. "Magic has returned to this world…or more correctly, it has reawakened from a long sleep."

* * *

Darth Achaia and Lysus stared at a hologram on the _Impetuous'_ bridge, displaying the magnified image of hundreds of ships sailing south, and have passed through an archipelago between the western continent and the core continent. The Sith Lord stroked his chin in thought, and nodded.

"Admiral Horst," he said. "We are in position to bombard this fleet from orbit, yes?"

The admiral checked their positioning first. "We'll have to adjust our orbit slightly," he said. "And it'll take a few minutes to be in position, but yes. We can bombard this fleet shortly."

"Do so."

"Yes, my lord."

Darth Achaia turned back to the hologram as the admiral began giving orders, the Sith Fleet adjusting its orbit in moments, while elsewhere across the fleet gunners began to man their turbolasers. "What do you think, Lysus?" the Sith Lord asked his apprentice. "About bombarding that primitive fleet below?"

"In the short-term," Lysus began. "It serves a dual purpose. First, weakening the westerners further to assist in our goal of conquest, and second, it is a demonstration of our power, though it may be some time before we may use it…but use it we will."

"Yes," Darth Achaia nodded. "And in the long-term?"

"It is of no concern." Lysus said. "We will be conquering this world anyway, not the westerners. And our future governor will be afforded _some_ modern forces to keep this world, if not completely under his thumb, then useful or at least orderly enough and loyal to the Sith Empire."

"Precisely."

The Sith looked on in silence as the Sith Fleet adjusted their orbit, and then minutes later, the hologram shifted, still displaying the fleet below but now overlaid with targeting data. "One volley should be sufficient." Darth Achaia said. "You may fire when ready."

"Yes, my lord." Admiral Horst said with a nod, and then turned to face the bridge. "Fire!"

Crimson beams lanced out from fleet's turbolaser batteries, soaring through space and then burning through kilometers of atmosphere as they fell to the ocean below. The Royal Fleet sailed unsuspecting of what was to come, their first and only warning being thunder rumbling overhead from displaced air.

And then the turbolaser bolts struck the ocean surface, each with the force of a multi-megaton detonation. Hundreds, if not thousands or even greater liters of of seawater were vaporized in an instant, producing gigantic shockwaves of superheated vapor and displaced water that blew the ships to pieces, ranging from those as long as a man's arm, or splinters barely visible to the Human eye. No bodies or body parts survived the bombardment, while surrounding coasts suffered as great waves from the bombardment spread outwards in a great circle.

The Stepstones kept the Narrow Sea safe, but the islands themselves were devastated by gigantic waves which tore vegetation and topsoil clean off, and left behind deposits of salt that poisoned what was left. Atolls and reefs were literally swept away, while the rocky shores of Dorne found themselves battered by those same gigantic waves.

Lys and Sunspear narrowly avoided being devastated by the waves, though the coasts to the north of the latter, and the island to the north and the west of Lys' own island were battered by the force of the waves. Tyrosh and Summer Islands were the worst-hit, for all that it took hours for the waves to reach the latter.

The death and devastation was horrific, with all but the inner city swept away by the waves, protected as it was by great and mighty walls of fused black stone, crafted in great rites of sorcery fueled by fire and blood during the days of the glory of Valyria. Tens of thousands perished, as slaves and freemen, magisters and priests alike, were all swept away by the waves along with the city's war and merchant fleets.

And even then the inner city still took great damage, as the water overwhelmed their gates and flooded the streets within the black walls.

As for the Summer Islands, the northern island took the brunt of the damage, thousands dying as the shorelines were overwhelmed and the waves swept a good distance inland. The southern islands were spared the wrath of the waves, along with the southern parts of the northern island, but even then death and devastation would leave deep scars on the way of life of the people of the Summer Islands.

On the _Impetuous'_ command deck, Darth Achaia smiled in satisfaction as he watched the waves radiating outwards, past the obscuring cover of a large mushroom cloud rising into the sky. Beside him, Lysus did likewise, while Admiral Horst remained coolly professional. "Very good, admiral." Darth Achaia said. "Return the fleet to an energy-efficient orbit. This will be enough for now."

"Yes, my lord."

* * *

A/N

Now, _that_ is what a turbolaser barrage should be capable of, and not that piss-poor showing in _Star Wars: Rebels_. I wouldn't be surprised it a RL 155mm howitzer battery would be more powerful than that…so much for being an advanced, spacefaring civilization.

Anyway, it _really_ begins. Ned marches south, and so the Sith will march north. The coming of the Sith reawakens magic, starting by Elia and her children clawing their way out of the Netherworld of the Force to take their revenge on the oh so-just and noble Jon Arryn, and by extension, Robert. Glass candles burn, and Marwyn is now hot stuff instead of a mild embarrassment.


	6. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Wars: The Old Republic_ , which is the property of BioWare and LucasArts. Neither do I own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , which is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Falling Shadows

Chapter 5

Corpses floated in the murky water of the bog, bloated and beginning to rot. Thigh-deep in the water, an Imperial soldier in armor patterned with green and brown stripes to help blend into his surroundings prodded a corpse with his blaster rifle. Satisfied that the corpse really was a corpse, he signaled for a droid to pick up the body and load it up on a nearby barge for disposal.

All around, other soldiers from the same squad were doing likewise, their platoon sweeping this sector for any signs of remaining resistance. Considering all the dead crannogmen in the water, slumped against trees, or simply lying on the ground, it was likely they were just going through the motions. Still, proper procedures must be followed, regardless.

According to captured native scholars, the so-called 'maesters' and their reference materials, the crannogmen are a reclusive group of people living in the south of the North, among the marshes and bogs of the region known as the Neck. On floating islands, they build small villages from reeds and thatch, and subsist on fishing and frogging. A short and poor people whispered to be Human only in part due to dalliances in times of myth and legend with the so-called 'Children of the Forest', they are looked down upon by the rest of the people of Westeros as cowards.

This reputation is born of the crannogmen's hardy and independent history. The lands their homes are in are both unpassable on foot and can be quite deadly not just to the unwary but also to those unused to their lands. The crannogmen had used this to their advantage in the past, drawing would be-conquerors and invaders into the marshes, and with poisoned arrows and ambushes, have left their corpses floating and rotting on the waters.

Only the First Men of the North had succeeded in conquering the crannogmen, when King Rickard the 'Laughing Wolf' Stark slew the last of the crannogmen's Marsh Kings and then took the fallen king's daughter as his wife and queen. Since then, the crannogmen have bent knee before the Starks of Winterfell, and have loyally served them and them alone.

And with the coming of the Sith, the crannogmen proved their loyalty by attacking the invaders without hesitation. With misdirection and deception, traps and ambushes, entire Imperial patrols and scouts probing into the Neck vanished into its mists and marshes, their last reports speaking of small, green and brown-clad figures appearing out of the water and the mists, slashing at limbs and joints, or firing arrows at extremely close range…if they even reported back at all.

To General Granger and his staff officers, the crannogmen's objective was clearly to hold the Neck and thus secure the central south of the North from the Sith. In so doing, they could keep the King's Road open, thus allowing the king and his army to pass over it, and join Lord Stark to the north.

General Granger had actually been impressed, if only to a certain degree. Asymmetric warfare offered the only viable strategy for the natives, not to win, but to not lose. And it was very possible to do so, and the general had to make sure to nip the idea in the bud before word got out and more of the planet's natives decided to adopt the strategy themselves.

Options had been discussed between the general and his staff officers. Orbital bombardment was quickly ruled out, the fallout of which could damage prime agricultural land further south, and potentially reduce the world's postwar economic value by a significant amount. A conventional bombing campaign was considered, but was also ultimately ruled out as too inefficient and time-consuming.

Instead, special ammunition was brought down from orbit, and distributed to artillery crews on the ground. Imperial soldiers were pulled back, with only droids being left behind to screen the edges of the marshes and bogs.

Now, approximately four days since the first deployment of special ammunition, Imperial soldiers were again pushing into the Neck, to no resistance. Instead, the dead were everywhere, not just Humans but animals as well, for they too were vulnerable to the use of special ammunition…or more specifically, chemical weapons.

Classified by the Sith Empire as Agent X, it was an odorless, extremely toxic, and persistent nerve agent that was illegal according to the rules of war as mandated by the Galactic Senate. Rules of war that had never been signed, much less ratified, by the Sith Empire, of course.

"This is Sergent Keneri," a squad leader said into her helmet's internal comlink. "We are entering the village now."

"Roger sergeant," the platoon commander replied, the lieutenant and his command squad attached to another squad elsewhere in their assigned sector. "Keep an eye out for surprises."

"Roger command, Sergent Keneri out."

The sergeant made a series of gestures, and the squad split into three four-man fire teams. They swept the village, going from door to door, but found only corpses, bloated and rotting in the marshes' damp.

"No one left here but corpses, sir." Corporal Gleport reported to the sergeant as they rendezvoused in the village square. "We need to get the disposal teams here quick, or this could go really bad."

"It'd be nice to have a fire going." Lance Corporal Warrgus remarked. "The armor's warm, but this place is dreary as all kriff. A fire would liven things up real nicely."

"Stow it, corporal." Sergeant Keneri said before sighing. "Though I do get what you mean."

"That's what happens when an entire village gets gassed." Private First Class Karkris remarked. "Not that they didn't have it coming, of course."

"Well, no argument there." Sergeant Keneri said. "Anyway, we'll sweep the village one more time, and then signal the disposal teams to move in. We'll hold the place down until they do, and then move on to our next assignment. So get a move on, people, our sweep's not over, not by a long shot!"

"Sir, yes sir!"

* * *

The Sith Imperial Army and the army of the North stared at each other over the Barrowlands. A region of wide, hilly plains dotted with barrows, the chosen battlefield was a relatively-flat one therein. Perfect tank country as far as the former were concerned, or as the latter saw it, chariot country. Horseless, sorcery-driven chariots, as the warriors of the North saw the tanks drawn up in the distance as.

Between the two armies, at the midway point, the leaders of both armies were meeting to parley. It was very old-fashioned, even for the Sith, especially since neither the Republic nor the Jedi were ones to parley with them except only when absolutely, completely, and irrefutably necessary.

But the people of this world…it was a romantic notion, but General Granger saw no reason not to indulge Lord Stark.

"Lord Eddard Stark, I presume." The general said as he approached, his two subordinates behind him remaining on their speeder bikes.

"You presume correctly." Ned replied. Like the general, he approached on foot, the Greatjon and Lord Karstark remaining on their horses behind him. "And it seems you have the advantage of me, good sir."

"So I do." General Granger said with a smile and a nod, and then drew himself up. "I am General Mikhail Granger, Commanding Officer of the Sith Imperial Army Detachment attached to the Expeditionary Force sent to your world."

Ned frowned at that, the strange phrasing…no, wording tugging at his mind. World? It was as though the general was saying he wasn't from their world. But that couldn't be it, could it?

No, it couldn't be. The general probably just wasn't used to their language, indeed, his Westerosi was quite accented, an accent Ned couldn't place.

 _Of course I can't, he's from somewhere we've never heard about before, much less visited._

"You're a long way from home, general." Ned observed instead.

General Granger smiled. "You have no idea, my lord." He said.

"Indeed," Ned said. "Very well, let's get down to the topic at hand: what do you want?"

"Ah, a very good question, and more often than not, what we want and need are two entirely different things…though in our case it is in fact, the same."

"Enough games, foreigner!" the Greatjon shouted from behind Ned. "Answer Lord Stark's question!"

"Peace, Lord Umber," Ned said over his shoulder before turning back to the general. "And what might that be, general?"

"We need not be adversaries, my lord." General Granger said. "Blood need not be shed today. We came here to conquer and subjugate, yes, but we would not be averse to accepting the peaceful submission of those willing to do so. Simply sink to your knees, and on your gods whomever or whatever they may be, pledge your loyalty and allegiance to His Majesty, the Immortal Emperor of the Sith. I shall witness in His Majesty's Name, and you and your men may go home in peace."

If Ned was surprised at the forthright admissions and demands presented before him, it quickly gave way to shock, and then to anger. Anger that he quickly reined in, before he did something he would later regret, for as…provocative, as the general had been, he had not drawn a weapon or threatened Ned's person, and they were still under a flag of truce. Nevertheless, Ned couldn't completely keep it from showing on his face either, nor did he want to.

It was simply too outrageous.

"Y-you expect us to…you just expect us to forsake all our oaths and bonds of fealty and loyalty," Ned growled. "And bend knee before your…supposedly, immortal ruler? A ruler we have no knowledge of much less met…madness! Surely you jest, general!"

"Oh I am quite serious, my lord." General Granger said, before raising his hands for Ned to continue to let him speak. "But I do not expect you to do so, and indeed, from what I have learned of your character, it would be an insult to you to assume so."

"And yet," Ned ground out. "You demanded…"

"You asked what I wanted, and what I needed from you." General Granger calmly replied in the face of Ned's anger. "And I gave an answer."

"…I'm sure you know what answer I will give you."

General Granger sighed. "Yes," he said with a nod. "I do."

"We will fight." Ned said resolutely.

"Yes," General Granger said with another nod. "And you will die."

"Perhaps," Ned conceded, raising a hand to forestall his lords from drawing their swords. "But all men must die. What's important is dying for the right reason."

"Then we have nothing more to discuss."

"No, we do not." Ned agreed. "May your gods be with you, whoever and whatever they might be."

General Granger did not immediately reply, but nodded after a couple of moments. "May the Force serve you well, my lord." He said, and without further elaboration gave a strange salute before turning away from Ned and heading back to his speeder bike.

* * *

Ned stared at General Granger as he mounted his…machine, of a steed, and watched as he sped away, flying a small distance above the ground. No doubt, driven by sorceries similar to those behind those horseless chariots of theirs in the distance.

As the general sped off, Ned turned and likewise returned to and mounted his horse. "The nerve!" the Greatjon spat as they rode back to their army. "They come to our lands, unwelcome and uninvited, killing and pillaging, and shamelessly tell to our faces that they expect us to just bend knee for some…foreign, tyrant with delusions of godhood? What's the world come to?"

"That's…why they're called invaders, Lord Umber." Rickard pointed out.

The Greatjon spat to the side. "Aye," he snarled. "That be true."

"They didn't expect us to just bend knee." Ned corrected softly. "They want us to, and to a degree _need_ us to, if only for the smallfolk to follow. But they don't expect it to go as smoothly as that…and so now we must fight."

"Aye," the Greatjon said with a grin. "We must! We'll kick these foreigners' asses, drive them back to the sea, no, _into_ the sea, and then we'll go home to feast and drink over our victories before winter comes!"

"And to honor the dead." Ned added over a shoulder, though he softened it with a smile. Rickard chuckled and nodded in agreement, and so did the Greatjon.

Riding up to his army, Ned swept it over with a practiced eye. It numbered some thirty thousand men, of which some twenty-six thousand were infantry, and some three thousand were cavalry. The infantry formed the center, the men in front wielding pikes in addition to their swords and shields, and generally had heavier plate armor not commonly seen in the North.

Behind them their brothers-in-arms were mostly armed with swords and shields, though plenty carried battle axes or maces in place of swords. There were also archers and crossbowmen, and mostly in chainmail hauberks with steel helms that were more commonly found in the North.

Forming the army's wings were the cavalry, heavily-armored lancers to the front, with lighter ones behind them carrying no lances. Some were armed with bows in addition to their swords or other weapons they carried in place of a sword.

Banners hung slack in the air, for there was no breeze, and Ned nodded once before reaching down and taking his own helm, placed it on his head. It was time. There was no avoiding this battle now, nor was there ever any hope despite his wishes for the contrary. All that could be done was to meet the enemy, and defeat them.

Drawing Ice, his house's ancestral Valyrian Steel sword with one hand, Ned galloped over to where one of his lords stood, commanding the center. "Lord…" Ned began only break off as he heard thunder rumbling nearby…very nearby.

"Thunder?" Rickard began. "That's…strange…there aren't any clouds, so…?"

Ned was having a very bad feeling about it all, and turning with his horse spotted the enemy's horseless chariots already charging in in a wedge formation, and with a speed that he found simply unbelievable. "Lord…" he began again…

…and then the world vanished in blinding light and searing pain…

…and Ned knew nothing more.

* * *

Plumes of fire, debris, and smoke erupted across the North's lines, Imperial artillery batteries concentrating their fire to clear out entire square kilometers with every volley. The volleys were adjusted with every shot, ensuring they would crawl up the battlefield, to clear out those behind the targets of the previous volley, and so on and so forth.

At the same time, _Supremacy_ fighters swooped down, targeting the cavalry moving to outflank the Imperial ground forces, somehow having divined the artillery batteries' locations behind the armored column and moving to take it out. The fighters leveled out into echelon formations, and then laser cannons lashed out, sending yet more plumes of fire and debris into the air as they strafed the northern cavalry on both flanks along broad fronts.

Already, the northern lines were collapsing. Casualty counts for the cavalry were horrendous, with over a thousand men and horses killed by the initial strafing run alone, and the casualties continued to pile up as the Imperial fighters scattered to pursue stragglers.

By now, Imperial tanks had closed the range, and the Imperial artillery batteries switched targets to the rear of the formation…or what had been the rear. The first artillery volley alone had broken the ranks of the northern infantry, or had nearly so, as hundreds of men, nearly a thousand in fact, perished in thunderous explosions that shook the earth like the fist of an angry god.

Had that been the only volley, they might have rallied, order restored to breaking ranks beginning to mill and run. But then came the second volley, and then the third…and the northern infantry broke, turning and running away from the Imperial tanks, and beginning to scatter. Men who tripped and fell were trampled over as fear and terror took hold…and then the Imperial armor was on them.

Laser cannons fired at pockets of infantry running before the Imperial tanks, while coaxial repeating heavy blasters raked out high-speed streams of crimson death. As the Imperial armored column tore into the heart of a confused mass of running infantry, crewmen manned pintle-mounted repeating heavy blasters, the armored formation allowing tanks to overlap their killing zones.

Finally, after a twenty-minute charge, the armored column was through, mechanized infantry fanning out and then surrounding the survivors. A few tried to make a fight of it, but most, broken by the artillery and the armored charge plus the strafing runs, surrendered. Over fifteen thousand men lay dead on the field, with over seven thousand more injured. Of those, some three thousand would die from their injuries before the coming day. All in all, out of an army of approximately thirty thousand, barely ten thousand broken men would march south from the Battle of the Barrowlands, to POW camps established at Fever Point by the Imperial Army.

Among the dead was one Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Lord Paramount and Warden of the North.

* * *

"You have done well, General Granger." Darth Achaia said.

"Thank you my lord." General Granger said, bowing low before the Sith Lord's hologram.

"Even if they were primitives," Darth Achaia continued. "Victory is still victory. Nevertheless, it is your…diligence, in putting down the insurgency of the swamp-dwelling savages to the south of the northern province that is more worthy of recognition. Yes…a commendation for military merit, is due at least."

"Thank you my lord." General Granger said again, and bowing low once more. "However, I must express my apologies. Lord Stark was killed in the battle, caught in the initial artillery barrage. Given his rank and station, capturing him should have been a priority. I have no excuse."

"It is of no concern." Darth Achaia said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Lord Stark's heir lives and will soon be in our grasp. It is he who will bend knee before me and swear allegiance to His Majesty."

"As you say, my lord." General Granger said with a bow. Darth Achaia nodded.

"In any case," he continued. "Lord Stark was standing on a battlefield. And people die on the battlefield. Furthermore, as one who led from the front and risked his life alongside fellow warriors, should not Lord Stark's death be considered most noble? To die and be buried alongside those who fought under his banner?"

"As you say, my lord." General Granger said with a nod. "Should I prioritize locating his body or whatever remains are left? Granted, given it was an artillery strike which killed him it is likely there will be little left, but it still might be possible…"

"That won't be necessary, general." Darth Achaia interrupted. "Once the prisoners are secure, and your troops have regrouped and replenished consumables, continue with the advance. Reinforce the escort force for the body disposal teams, however."

"As you wish, my lord."

Darth Achaia nodded. "Inform them as well to recover…say, one hundred sets of weapons and armor." He said. "Clean them, and restore them to at least…a displayable, state. They will be of use to us in the post-conquest stage of our campaign on this world."

"Yes, my lord." General Granger said with a bow. "It will be done."

"Soon Winterfell will be in our grasp, and then we can turn our attentions to the rest of this continent." Darth Achaia continued. "Take heed however, general. The king of these lands leads his army north. It is still of no real threat to us, but the psychological effect of defeat would be greater if we defeated them in their core provinces to the south."

"I will make certain to keep them from being able to enter the northern province overland, then." General Granger said. "And with their fleet destroyed, they cannot bring an army in by sea."

"So they cannot." Darth Achaia said with a nod. "I leave it to you, general."

"Yes, my lord."

The general bowed, and then the Sith Lord's hologram faded away. "Get me General Hamohadd," General Granger ordered his adjutant as he straightened. "Along with Colonel Lanerc. I have a special assignment in mind for them and their units."

"Yes sir, right away!"

* * *

A young girl dreamed.

She dreamed of red sands, stretching as far as the eye could see under a dusty sky. Rocky promontories rose from the desert, towering with majestic somberness over the sands. Great spires of crimson stone stabbed into the air, mighty pillars both natural and artificial engraved with the flowing script of an alien tongue, or shaped into cyclopean sculptures of great and mighty figures of the past, still exuding an air of power and glory no matter how worn they might be by the desert and by the passing of time.

It was a strange dream, for all her life she had known only the harsh lands of Essos, far from the green fields and sprawling forests of Westeros that her brother had told her of, in his tales of the glories of their family, their birthright and true home across the sea. And yet…as she stared out over the red sands of her dreams, she felt not a crushing desolation at the nigh lifeless expanse before her, but instead was struck by a strange air of magnificence.

There was a presence among those sands, powerful and ominous, and yet…she felt herself drawn to it. It sang to her, a song with neither sound nor words, the girl hearing it only with her soul.

It sang of chains broken, of limits and weaknesses broken and surpassed, of power, glory, and might, dreams made real and every desire fulfilled. It sang a challenge to her, telling her that all she had to do was step forward, to not let herself be swept away by the tides of fate and the universe, and to instead take hold of her own fate, and make of it as she wished of it.

As though bidden by the song, the landscape swept past, crimson sands, stones, and sky, until abruptly the earth fell away, into a mighty and jagged valley that cut deep into the stony ground. Mighty tombs were cut into the walls of the valley, great murals carved into their faces. Alien script flowed over the stone, flanked by sculpted forms of humble obeisance to the great ones entombed within.

Other tombs rose into great and mighty pyramids from the valley floor, but the girl's eyes were drawn to another pyramid located not far from the very end of the valley. There, standing on a balcony, looking out over the valley before her, was a young woman. Hair the color of gold and silver blended together fell down in twisted locks to her shoulders, a chain of silver metal worn across her collar holding a crimson mantle in place around her shoulders and over her black robes, the metal shining in the wan light of the desert sun in the afternoon.

The young woman turned her head, transfixing the girl with violet eyes that shone with inner fire. A black-gloved hand was raised, no, _offered_ towards her, as though inviting her to take it, and to join the young woman in power and might.

Daenerys Targaryen opened her eyes, and jolting awake looked frantically around her. Not far from her, her brother Viserys Targaryen slept in his roll, breathing softly, his slumber unbroken.

" _It was just a dream._ " Daenerys thought with a sigh. Lying back down in her roll, she tried to return to sleep, but after a few minutes with no success, she carefully crawled out of both the roll and the worn, much-patched tent that her brother had managed to haggle from a vendor in one of the smaller towns between Pentos and Myr.

Sitting down on the hard and dry ground, Daenerys looked up at the starry sky. They shone bright and clear in countless numbers, and once again Daenerys heard the song from her dreams. The song sang as before, challenging her to embrace her passions, to be true to herself, to make her life and destiny her own, and to be who she was born to be.

And though she knew not yet how to answer the challenge, a smile found its way to Daenerys' face, as she listened to the song.

* * *

A/N

Time to remind you folks that the Sith can still be very nasty people when pushed. They're not complete evil despite what Disney likes people to think, but they're definitely a dark shade of grey. Though it's not as though Jedi are any different, again despite what Disney likes people to think. They have committed genocide in the past, with the excuse of 'we were just following orders', and have and will continue to look the other way for millennia from numerous galactic ills and wrongs if only because it doesn't involve either the Dark Side or the Republic (or even if it involves the Republic) because 'it's the will of the Force'.

Agent X is…VX nerve gas. Nasty stuff, that.

Sorry Ned, but people have to die. Including you, sadly. I really like Ned, TBH. He was too good a man for either _Star Wars_ or _A Song of Ice and Fire_. He and his family should have been born in a brighter, kinder universe than either.

Finally, Dany. Will she become a Sith? Perhaps, perhaps not, but she can hear the song of the Dark Side of the Force now. If she does…well, things can always get worse for the Lannisters and STAB. And it's not like they don't deserve it.

I mean seriously, 'STAB', really? I know it's an acronym, but it outright screams 'We're going to kill you and your entire family, including the children because you're all a bunch of godless, incestuous dragonspawn while we're noble, just, gods-blessed, and purest of the pure heroes here to save Westeros from you and your ilk'. I mean, f*ck.


	7. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Wars: The Old Republic_ , which is the property of BioWare and LucasArts. Neither do I own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , which is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Falling Shadows

Chapter 6

They came in the middle of the morning, riding from the south, exhausted riders on equally exhausted horses. A few in the army encamped outside of Winterfell recognized the two riders as belonging to the host gathered under the command of Lord Roose Bolton, and rumors and tales quickly began circulating across the camp, on what tidings they might have brought. Given the riders and their steeds' sorry states, such rumors and tales invariably tended towards the darker and the tragic.

Jory Cassel, Captain of the Household Guard, strode out into the courtyard accompanied by several guards, and made for where the riders had dismounted. Servants tended to their shaking and heavily-breathing horses, watering them and removing their barding to reduce their burden before leading them away to the stables.

Other servants were bringing water for the riders to drink, and drink they did, great gasping gulps of water which overflowed from their mouths and spilled down over their fronts. Had not it been for their haggard states, Jory would have found it unseemly. As it was, it was very worrying.

"What word from the south, my friends?" he asked after the riders had finished drinking.

One of the riders held up a hand, while catching his breath. "Where is Lady Stark?" the man asked after several moments.

"Tending to her duties." Jory answered curtly. "And? What news do you bring?"

The men's expressions were hard, and Jory immediately feared the worst. "Perhaps it is best if we told Lady Stark herself, captain." The second rider said. "As I understand it, Lord Stark is still too young, therefore his mother will govern in his place."

Even without it being outright said, Jory knew that his lord and master had passed on to the next world. Closing his eyes and sighing softly in grief, the captain nodded and led the way into the Great Keep.

They found Lady Catelyn Stark fussing over linens with a pair of servants in a chamber in the Great Keep. "Lady Stark," Jory began with a bow. "There is news from the south."

Catelyn turned and immediately looked apprehensive. Jory wondered for a moment if anything in his and his companions' expressions and bearing could have given them away, but decided that even without that, it was only natural for his late liege's wife to be apprehensive, in case the news turned out to be not good. And it was all but certainly not.

Catelyn gestured for the maids to leave, and as they left Jory and the two Bolton men entered the chamber. "Lady Stark," the elder of the two men said as they both bowed. "I am truly sorry to have to tell you this, but…that is…our army, faced the invaders on the Barrowlands. And we were defeated. Only few made it away. The rest were either killed, or taken prisoner."

Catelyn gasped and held her hands over her mouth. For several moments she struggled to regain her composure, and then holding a clenched hand over her chest, made to speak. "A-and?" she pressed. "W-what of…what of Ned…what of Lord Stark?"

"I am sorry, my lady."

Catelyn wailed and turned away, holding her hands over her face as she stumbled towards the window, sobbing in grief. The two men bowed respectfully, while Jory rubbed his eyes. "How?" he asked. "How did…how did Lord Stark…?"

"He was at the front, before the center, giving orders to our infantry." One of the Bolton men answered. "The enemy…the invaders used…some kind of sorcery, that broke and shook the earth. And flying machines that spat lances of fire…"

Jory looked flintily at both men. "You expect us to believe that?" he demanded, one hand falling to his sword.

"Captain, please!" the man before him pleaded, which immediately told Jory he wasn't lying. Lord Bolton's men were a hard lot, and if this man, an older man long accustomed to how his lord allowed him to act was reduced to pleading…no more than that, desperation, a broken kind of despair in his eyes…he was probably telling the truth. "What reason have we to lie?"

"…normally I'd give them." Jory said after a long moment, and taking his hand off his sword. "What happened?"

There was something in the captain's tone that immediately told the two Bolton men that he wanted to know what it was that had broken them. "Lord Bolton…" the other of the two said. "He was killed by one of those flying machines. Lances of fire fell all around him…only dirt…and broken bodies, fell from where they tore them and the ground apart."

"…and the other lords?"

The Bolton men shook their heads. "We do not know." The first of the two said.

Jory gave a deep shuddering breath. "My uncle…" he whispered before shaking his head, and turned to look at Catelyn crying by the window. "I…we…"

Trailing off, Jory shook his head again. "Lord Robb needs to know." He said softly. "But…it's not our place to do so."

"Captain," one of the two Bolton men asked. "What do we do now?"

"…I don't know."

* * *

Despite efforts to keep things quiet, word somehow got out and quickly spread that the army which had gone south earlier had met disaster. That Lord Stark and his vassal lords were dead or prisoner, and that the invaders were marching north, to take Winterfell.

Great crowds of soldiers approached Winterfell, demanding answers. Others, fearing the worst, attempted to desert. Some succeeded, others were captured, and put to death as an example.

Jory had been furious when he learned word had gotten out, even more as the entire Stark family was in an understandable state of mourning. Robb and Jon had both sworn oaths of vengeance, while Sansa and Arya joined their mother in grief-stricken crying. Arya in particular, was all but inconsolable.

The only exception had been Bran, which was understandable and was only three summers of age. Too young really, to truly understand the world and what was happening around him.

There had been those – in particular the two Bolton men – who'd pushed for examples to made, to force the one with a loose tongue to come forward. They suggested flaying in public, and disturbingly a few of Jory's guards agreed, and to his disgust, a small part of Jory himself agreed as well.

But he didn't. Too much northern blood had been spilled already, and there was no need to spill anymore fighting amongst themselves. Not when the enemy was undoubtedly marching north, and there were too many things that needed to be done.

"I want a delegation to be brought in, here at Winterfell." Jory ordered one of his guards. "Tell that to the men demanding answers, and tell them to select from among themselves who'll receive the answers they want, and give it to the men."

"Yes, captain."

Jory nodded, and then turned to another guard. "Asten," he said. "I need you to lead outriders south, across the Barrowlands. Find the enemy army, and send word back on how long it would take them to reach Winterfell. We need to know that much at least, for Lady Stark to make the necessary decisions."

"…can she?" the guard asked, and then quailed as Jory glared.

"It's not our place to presume." He snarled, and the chastened guard bowed before leaving to perform his orders.

"The man had a point." Vayon Poole, Steward of Winterfell pointed out. "Lady Stark is understandably lost in grief, so it does leave the question of whether she can make the decisions, one way or another, when the time comes, to be answered."

"And you know as well as I do that there's no answering that question." Jory said with a sigh.

"If Lady Stark cannot make the decisions," Luwin said softly. "Then, as the ranking member of the household in a time of war, it is you who must make the decisions, Captain Cassel."

Jory sighed and nodded. "I know." He said. "And knowing brings no comfort."

"…and if you must make the decisions," Luwin asked after a few moments. "Then what will you do?"

"…protect House Stark's future."

Vayon and Luwin looked at each other, and then nodding, Luwin sighed. "That…might be all we can do, indeed." He said, and Vayon nodded again.

"A most sad and bitter fact." Jory said softly before sighing. "Leave me. I must…prepare myself, to answer the men's questions when they come."

The steward and the maester nodded, and then turning, left Jory alone in the armory. He was still there, nearly an hour later, when a guard came and told him that the delegation from the army had come.

"What has happened to Lord Stark?" one man demanded loudly as Jory approached them, standing amidst the courtyard.

"Is it true?" another man demanded. "Is it true that Lord Stark's host was defeated?"

"Is the enemy coming?"

"What do we do now?"

"What of Lord Stark's son and heir? The rest of his family? Lady Stark? Do they know?"

These and dozens of other questions were shouted at Jory, and he promptly shut them up by roaring out what was probably the most important answer they wanted.

"LORD STARK IS DEAD!"

Silence fell, followed by uneasy murmurs and glances. "Lord Stark is dead." Jory repeated in a softer voice. "He died, sword in hand, defiant against an enemy which comes, unwelcome and uninvited, to spoil and pillage our lands, and to kill and terrorize our people. He died, loyal and true, rather than bend and succumb, forsaking his oaths to the king and the realm."

Jory paused, letting his eyes sweep over the men before him. "And now," he continued. "We must honor his memory."

"Indeed we must, Captain Cassel."

Eyes turned to the source of the voice, and then men were bowing and Jory was sinking to one knee as Catelyn approached. She was dressed all in black, her cheeks pale and eyes a trifle bloodshot, but her bearing and voice alike were strong, with no hint of weakness to them.

As she passed Jory, Catelyn paused, and placed a hand on his shoulder to squeeze with gratitude. "The enemy is coming." Catelyn told the men standing before her. "They will seek to usurp this place, this seat of your liege lord and his ancestors, or worse, to plunder and raze it to the ground. If you are loyal to your oaths, and truly wish to honor your fallen lord, then prepare. Prepare for battle!"

Roars and cheers went up at that, though Catelyn did not smile. "Know this," she added. "Lord Stark is dead. But his son lives. And through him, so does his father. Spread the word."

More cheers and roars went up, and with a nod, Catelyn dismissed the men. As they left, Catelyn turned to Jory, and gestured for him to rise. "You have my thanks, Captain Cassel." She said. "For taking the lead when I could not."

"I was only doing my duty, my lady." Jory said. "No thanks are needed."

Catelyn nodded. "Tell me what you have done so far." She said, while walking back to the Great Keep. "But before that…"

Catelyn trailed off, and then dropped her voice. "Prepare to smuggle my children out of the castle." She said.

"My lady?"

"Winterfell may fall…but my children…the future of this family…I cannot allow them to fall with it."

"I understand."

* * *

Catelyn and her allies had hoped they would have several days at least to prepare for the enemy's coming. But on the evening of the same day word came from the south, the outriders returned, bearing news that the enemy was barely two days, maybe less from Winterfell.

"That hardly seems possible!" one of the Bolton men who'd brought word back thundered. "How could an army that size move so quickly?"

"Sorcery…!" Catelyn spat. "From what you've told us, they've used sorcery in battle, so why not for this as well?"

"But…how…?"

Eyes turned to Luwin, but the maester shook his head. "Knowledge of magic and sorcery has long been forgotten and lost, my lords." He said. "To our knowledge, Valyria was the last, great repository of arcane lore, and what it possessed was all but lost in the Doom. Only fragments remain, jealously guarded by those who have them, and almost all completely useless."

"…so much for the wisdom of the Citadel." One man snapped.

"The Citadel does have a small measure of knowledge on the arcane arts." Luwin admitted. "But as I have said, it is so fragmented, and magic so…snuffed out, by the passing of time and the Doom of Valyria, that study of it is done only by a bare few. In the current generation, only one I know could be considered its master."

"And you, Maester Luwin?" Catelyn asked.

"Forgive me," Luwin said with a shake of his head. "I have not. I cannot give answers that I do not have."

"…so what now?"

"We must prepare for battle." Jory answered. "What else can we do?"

"But…" Vayon floundered. "We have barely ten thousand men here. What could we achieve when an army three times that size could only break?"

"…we die with honor." Jory said, before closing his eyes and sighing before turning to Catelyn, but she was silent. "Other than that, our only other choice is to bend knee. But if we did…Lord Stark, would only look away in shame from the other side."

There was silence across the council chamber, and then Catelyn took a deep breath. "We all have work to do." She said. "So let us do so, and make the last stand of the North worth a song at least. Fear not, I will remain here, until the end."

Eyes turned to Catelyn, and then away at the veiled expression of loss and resignation on her face. After a few moments, the men began talking amongst themselves, and then rising, left the council chamber. Jory alone remained, and after making sure no one was left to overhear, approached Catelyn.

"You do not intend to escape, my lady?" he asked.

"My place is here." Catelyn replied.

"Your children need you." Jory countered.

"Yes, they do." Catelyn said with a sigh. "But so does my husband's… _my_ people. Family, Duty, Honor…those are my father's house's words, you know."

"I am aware."

Catelyn nodded. "I have already had my children forsake the North, for the future of their house." She said. "I cannot do the same."

Jory was silent for a few moments, and then sighing, nodded. "I'll make the arrangements." He said.

Catelyn nodded. "Thank you, captain." She said.

* * *

It was deep at night when a small side door opened near Winterfell's north gate. A pair of horses were held outside by a waiting pair of guards waiting, and a procession of thickly-bundled people emerged from the door, no visible sigils to be seen on their clothes.

Robb Stark and Jon Snow mounted their horses, Sansa Stark holding a slumbering Bran riding behind Robb, and Arya before Jon. "You must go south," Catelyn said softly but firmly. "Your final destination must be Riverrun, with my father and brother, or Gulltown and thence the Eyrie, with my sister. You will be safe there, my children."

"We will, mother." Robb promised, his sisters following suit but Jon remained silent.

Catelyn nodded. "The enemy will probably expect people fleeing to take the direct route." She said. "Over the Causeway, or by ship from White Harbor. So to go south, you must go north first, to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. There, you can take ship, either to Gulltown or Maidenpool."

Robb nodded again, and then blinking noticed there were only two horses. "Mother," he began. "Are you not coming with us?"

Catelyn smiled softly. "My place is here." She said softly.

Immediately a chorus of protests went up, Arya going so far as to squirm free of Jon's arms and running at her mother threw herself at her. "Mother please." Robb pleaded. "Come with us. You cannot expect us to just leave you behind here, at the invaders' mercy."

"I wish I could, Robb." Catelyn said, stroking a tearful Arya's back. "But I cannot leave your father's people alone to face the enemy on their own. Otherwise, I could never face your father when my time comes."

"Then neither can I!" Robb said loudly. "I am Lord Stark now, Lord of Winterfell and the North! If you're staying, then so should I! If anything, it should be you leaving for safety, with Arya, Jon, Sansa and Bran! I should be the one staying with _my_ people…!"

"Robb, please, _please!_ " Catelyn pleaded, taking her son's hand and squeezing hard. "Please understand. You are the future of the North, of House Stark. If you fall, whether in death or into enemy hands, then there will be nothing left. But so long as you live, as long as you are free, with your sisters and brother, then there is hope. Please, Robb. Please don't let that hope disappear."

Robb face was torn, and he quickly wiped away his tears. "I…I…I promise…I promise I won't mother." He said.

Catelyn nodded, squeezing her son's hand hard once more, and then walking over to Jon's horse, embraced the tearful Arya before lifting her back onto the horse. "I don't want to go without you." The girl cried, and Catelyn smiled sadly while caressing her face.

"Be strong, Arya dearest. Be strong." She said, before turning to Jon.

Lady and bastard stared at each other for a long moment, and then hesitantly, Catelyn placed a hand on his arm. "I have not treated you as well as I could have." She admitted. "But please, allow this selfish woman one more selfish request: protect your sisters, and help your brothers. For your father's sake at least, please."

Jon nodded. "I have never held anything against you, Lady Stark." He said. "So I promise, for both your, and father's sakes."

Catelyn smiled regretfully. "Thank you." She said, before stepping back. "Now go, quickly. Before it's too late, go!"

"Farewell, mother." Robb said, choking on his own voice. "And may the gods, old and new, allow us to see each other again someday. Until then, take care, and the gods be with you."

Catelyn nodded, watching as her children and her husband's bastard rode away into the night. Only then did she allow her tears to fall.

* * *

The Imperial Army arrived at noon on the following day. Tanks advanced on Winterfell in a spearhead from the south, APCs rumbling behind the armored lines.

The last of the army of the North were gathered before the castle, facing south. At the center, nearly nine thousand foot soldiers were gathered. To their flanks, some one thousand horsemen waited for the order to charge.

And then shrieking like demons out of some fiery hell, _Extinction_ bombers swooped down along a broad front from the northern army's right flank. Proton bombs fell, flashing bright blue as they arced down to the ground, and exploded in great plumes of fire and broken earth and flesh along the entire line.

Imperial tanks fired their laser cannons as they advanced, picking off targets of opportunity. Not that there were much left, the bombing run having slaughtered nearly the entire army all at once, leaving the survivors stumbling about or just sitting or lying on the ground in a state of shock.

More craft swooped down, dropships this time. Crimson light flashed at high speeds from sponson-mounted repeating heavy blasters, picking men off the battlements and tearing turrets off towers. Doors opened and lines fell as the dropships positioned themselves over the gatehouses, and then Imperial soldiers were rappelling down.

Veteran troops, they fired their blasters in short, precise bursts, never missing and always killing with every burst. Landing on the ancient walls, they fanned out, covering each other as they advanced, securing the battlements and marching down staircases to secure the gatehouses before opening the gates.

Most attention was to the courtyard, for it was here that twenty-four Sith Warriors and three Sith Lords had jumped off their dropships onto. Mouths fell open as armored forms fell dozens of feet only to land with catlike grace, and then rising to their feet, ignited their lightsabers.

For a moment there was only stillness, and then with roars both sides charged at each other. Darth Achaia was at the front, his saberstaff already revolving before him before he lashed out, carving through steel, iron, flesh and bone, sending three corpses falling to the ground in quick succession.

Ducking down, he dodged a morning star swung at him, and then lashing out with a foot, kicked a guard away with the sound of breaking bone. Another swing of his saberstaff cut down another guard, and then holding out a hand lashed out with Force Lightning, killing three more guards and blowing the barricaded doors into the Great Keep open.

"Sith Lords…warriors!" he roared as he advanced into the Great Keep. "Follow my lead! Soldiers, secure the castle! Victory is already assured, and the Force serves us well! Onwards!"

All the Sith, from the soldiers pouring through the gates to the warriors and lords behind Darth Achaia, roared in triumph. More guards desperately tried to stop the Sith from pushing any further into the castle, but the Sith were unstoppable. Darth Achaia had even put away his saberstaff, instead lashing out with Force Lightning at anything that opposed him, leaving only smoking slag and burnt corpses in his wake.

Catelyn Stark, nee Tully, Lady of Winterfell was waiting for the Sith in the Great Hall. They burst through the doors and fanned out across the hall, Darth Achaia striding across to stop halfway to where Catelyn was sitting.

"Lady Catelyn Stark, I presume." Darth Achaia said.

"You presume correctly." Catelyn said. "And you have the advantage of me, it seems."

"So I do." Darth Achaia admitted. "I am Darth Achaia, Lord of the Sith, Commander of the Expedition sent to bring your world into the Empire's fold."

"And what do you want from me?"

"The castle has fallen." Darth Achaia said. "Organized resistance has stopped, and all that's left is mopping up. And of course, for you to formally surrender yourself and yours to the Empire."

"…and what are your terms?" Catelyn asked after a moment.

"My terms are simple." Darth Achaia said. "You and yours will bend knee before me, and with me and my fellow Sith as witnesses, swear allegiance to His Imperial Majesty, the Immortal Emperor of the Sith. You may swear by your gods if you so wish."

"And if I do, what then?" Catelyn asked.

"Then you and yours will be recognized as subjects of His Imperial Majesty," Darth Achaia said. "With all the rights and obligations that come with it. Furthermore, you and your children, and the lords which pledge fealty to you, will have their titles and privileges acknowledged and upheld by the Empire."

"Most generous," Catelyn said neutrally. "And yet those are but generalities. What of the details, Lord Achaia?"

Darth Achaia smiled. "I would not bore you with the details." He said. "Rest assured, when I say rights and obligations, and recognition of your titles and privileges, not much will change, or if they do, it will be for the better. I give you my word."

"Your word…?" Catelyn echoed.

"Yes, my word."

Catelyn was silent for a moment, and then she looked away. "I am humbled by your generosity, my lord." She said. "And I can see the Empire is most…magnanimous. However, while I would, and do, surrender this castle and all within it to you and your liege lord, I cannot give you the oath you ask for."

"And may I ask why?"

"I am not the Lord of Winterfell, or of the North, merely his widow. It would be inappropriate for me to step beyond my bounds."

"That will not be a problem, Lady Stark."

Catelyn looked at Darth Achaia in surprise, and then the blood drained from her face as with a snap of his fingers, four soldiers brought forward a pair of small, battered forms and threw them across the hall to where Catelyn was sitting. Relishing the horrified emotions pouring from Catelyn, Darth Achaia turned his attention to Robb as he struggled to get to his feet.

"Come now, Lord Stark." Darth Achaia said. "As young as you are, surely you understand the position you are in. Your armies are defeated. Your people are at my mercy. Make peace now while you have the chance. And have some dignity, a Sith Lord you are not, but a lord you are still."

"I will never bow before you, or your master!" Robb spat. "You bastards killed my father! I'll never forgive you!"

Darth Achaia shrugged. "I have no need, nor desire for your forgiveness," he said, before snapping his fingers again. "Only your obedience."

This time, it was Robb's turn for the blood to drain from his face, as a pair of soldiers brought up a terrified Sansa, and forced her down to her knees beside Darth Achaia. There was a snap-hiss as the Sith Lord ignited one blade of his saberstaff, and held it near the sobbing six year-old's left cheek.

"Shall I hurt her then?" he asked, drinking in Robb, Sansa, and Catelyn's horror and fear, topped by a spike of anger.

"Sansa, no!" Robb shouted before he turned to Jon, the other boy getting to his feet with a roar. "Jon, stop!"

Jon ignored his brother, eyes only on his little sister held at blade-point. Without any weapon in his hand, without a care for his safety, he ran at the dark-cloaked, armored figure which had dared invade his country, his home, and take their father away from his family.

Darth Achaia simply raised a hand, and fired a sizzling burst of Force Lightning at Jon. The boy's eyes barely had time to widen before agonizing, burning pain filled his body, and he let loose a cry of pain as he was thrown through the air to land hard against the far wall, and fell to the floor.

"JON!" Catelyn shouted with concern that surprised her, rushing over to where the boy lay, groaning in pain as smoke rose from singed and blackened clothes, patches of skin red with burns.

"Impressive spirit…but ultimately pointless. What a shame…" Darth Achaia said, before turning back to Robb, and moving his lightsaber ever so closer to Sansa's cheek. "Well, Lord Stark it is all up to you."

There was really no other choice. With a heavy, shuddering breath, the ten-year-old boy moved to one knee, and bowed his head.

"I, Lord Robb Stark," he began. "Pledge my loyalty to the Immortal Emperor of the Sith, and submit myself, my family, and our heirs, to his mercy until the end of time. By the Grace of the Old Gods of the Forest, so say I, Lord Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Lord Paramount and Warden of the North."

Darth Achaia smiled and pulling away his lightsaber, deactivated the blade.

"Excellent."

* * *

A/N

Poor Sansa, always getting the short end of the stick.

Ages of the Stark children:

Robb: 10

Jon: 10

Sansa: 6

Arya: 4

Brandon: 3

Rickon…will never be born or conceived.


	8. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Wars: The Old Republic_ , which is the property of BioWare and LucasArts. Neither do I own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , which is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Falling Shadows

Chapter 7

Winterfell bustled with Imperial soldiers. Engineers for the most part, along with droids and locals conscripted to assist them, first to repair the damage from the recent battle, and again to upgrade its facilities. Electrical lighting and modern plumbing and sanitary facilities for instance, as well as modern communication systems and centralized heating, and of course energy sources and other necessities they needed to function with.

It was just for Winterfell, of course. A show of courtesy to some of the Sith's new vassals. If the Starks wanted more, then they had to pay for it, after the war.

"…listed down Arya and Brandon Stark for Korriban yet?" Darth Achaia asked his apprentice as they stood in the makeshift situation room inside Winterfell.

"I have, my lord." Lysus replied, and Darth Achaia nodded.

"Good," he said. "They're still too young to actually be sent there, of course. Whether to survive the trials…or to actually have the ability to understand and _choose_ for themselves."

"Choice is the essence of freedom." Lysus said with a nod. "And freedom is the essence of the Dark Side."

"Indeed," Darth Achaia said, and then turned as a pair of soldiers entered the situation room, frog marching a lean, dark-haired and dark-eyed young man into the room. "Who is this?"

"He claims to be one Theon Greyjoy, my lord." One of the soldiers said. "Apparently he was here as a noble hostage. We found him in a…compromising, situation with one of the maidservants."

Darth Achaia chuckled. "Well, he certainly has the face for a ladies' man." He said, before reaching out and firmly grabbing Theon by the chin. "Strange…Lady Stark never mentioned you…and yet, I see there is no falsehood here. Did she forget…or…?"

The Sith Lord turned to his apprentice. "Lysus," he began. "What do you think?"

The young Sith Warrior crossed her arms and thought for a few moments. "As I recall," she finally said. "The Greyjoy fief rebelled against the native king a few years ago. If so, then it may be that the wounds of the war have yet to truly heal, and thus this young man here was…below regard, and thus forgotten in the chaos of the invasion."

"Hmm…that is an accurate assessment…and likely the correct one as well."

Lysus bowed at the praise, and then Darth Achaia turned back to the apprehensive Theon. Golden eyes stared into dark ones, and unbidden memories rose to the front of Theon's mind.

 _…a drunken man strikes a boy on the back of his head for being too noisy before yelling at him to get out of his sight…_

 _…a tall and striking man shouts harsh taunts and jeers as a boy struggles with a sword…_

 _…cowering in a bedroom before screaming as a pair of men with wolf heads on their tabards break into his room and take him away…_

 _…a boy stands before his father, being told to be strong and to remember who he was even in the den of their enemies…_

 _…a boy seethes inwardly and vows to change things as he feels the weight of distrustful and judging eyes on his back…_

 _…frantic…heated…urgent…passion…_

 _…the air shrieks with the screaming of demons before the ground shakes accompanied by the sound of thunder so very close, the young man continuing to cower in fear in the deepest cellar amid casks of drink…_

Theon gasps as the Sith Lord blinked, and then Darth Achaia was chuckling. "A ladies' man indeed," he scoffed, mockery evident in his tone. "He is of no further use to us. Send him back to the Iron Islands and to his sister, and with our compliments."

"It will be done, my lord."

The soldiers bowed, and with a gesture from Darth Achaia they left, frog marching Theon away with them. The Sith Lord then turned back to his apprentice. "Now then," he began. "On to more important matters…"

* * *

Catelyn sighed as she sat in her shuttle, accompanied only by Imperial soldiers, their faces hidden behind their vaguely skull-masked helmets. They were silent and professional, veteran troops according to Darth Achaia, and assigned to her for her own 'protection'.

And no doubt, if she did anything other than what was expected of her, to dispose of her as well.

 _"You summoned me, my lord?"_

 _It was galling, to be so…deferent, to this…foreign lord, who'd not only come unwelcome and uninvited to her people's lands, but had slain her husband, forced her son to bend knee in his own hall, and now along with his ilk stomped around Winterfell changing things as they pleased. Not to mention, a sorcerer to boot, wielding unholy and tainted powers drawn no doubt from some infernal pact with one denizen or another of the Seven Hells._

 _Granted, their machines were probably just that, machines, not sorcerous constructs according to Maester Luwin, but their lords…_

 _…sorcerers…witches…accursed in the eyes of gods and men. And now this…man, actually had the impudence to summon her like some common servant._

 _Worst of all, it seemed he knew exactly how she felt…and was **amused** by it. And there was nothing she could do about the humiliation, which only made it even **worse** , and which further amused the foreign lord before her and thus worsened the humiliation in a never-ending circle._

 _There was nothing to be seen of this on either of their faces or bearing, but a prolonged glance into their eyes would reveal it. Resentment and humiliation in Catelyn's, and amusement in Darth Achaia's._

 _"Yes," Darth Achaia said. "I have a task I would have you do for us."_

 _"I would be honored to do so, my lord." Catelyn said with a bow, biting back the bile at her words._

 _"No doubt." Darth Achaia replied, and Catelyn bit back even more bile. "White Harbor…that is the name of the city along the south of this province, it is not?"_

 _"That is correct, my lord." Catelyn said. "Perhaps you wish for me to lead a delegation to Lord Manderly?"_

 _"Indeed," Darth Achaia said, and beginning to pace. "Word is going around the province of Lord Stark's submission to our empire, but after Winterfell_ , _White Harbor is the next most important location in the northern province. It is after all, the main port, and the single biggest population center in the province. Its formal submission to Imperial authority through Lord Stark, would constitute a major step in consolidation of Imperial rule over this province."_

 _"As you say, my lord."_

 _"Well," Darth Achaia said, halting and then turning to face Catelyn. "Will you accept this task for us?"_

 _Catelyn curtsied. "I am His Majesty's servant." She said, biting back the biggest amount of bile yet at the thought of acknowledging the unblessed ruler of the Sith Empire._

 _Darth Achaia was silent for a long moment, his eyes boring at Catelyn, all amusement gone. Catelyn struggled not to flinch, wondering what might have offended the sorcerer before her._

 _"I have been told," Darth Achaia began. "That you have spent the past few days caring for that natural-born child, Jon Snow, was it…? Or am I wrong?"_

 _"You are not, my lord."_

 _"Hmm…and yet, I have been told that before our coming you had treated him…poorly."_

 _Catelyn hesitated, struggling to find the right words. "With respect," she eventually said. "I merely treated him according to his station. And ultimately, he is still but a child. His…injuries, during the battle needed tending to, and he is close to my own children."_

 _Darth Achaia closed his eyes while smiling before walking over to a window. "I see." He said. "Did you know? One of the powers granted to those who can touch the Force is the ability to see…distant places…old friends dead and gone…and even things that have long since been, have yet to be…or even just might have been…"_

 _Catelyn was confused. Was Darth Achaia saying what she thought he was saying. "Long ago," Darth Achaia continued. "You asked your late husband did you not? Was the mother of the boy…Ashara Dayne…?"_

 _Catelyn looked away, face marked by bitterness and humiliation. "I fail to see what this has to do with current matters, my lord." She said._

 _"I merely think that some closure would do you well." Darth Achaia said, turning to face Catelyn. "Your husband refused to give you a real answer. But I shall grant it to you: Jon Snow is the son of Eddard Stark and Ashara Dayne."_

 _Catelyn made no sound, only a slight lowering of her head marking her acceptance of the fact. She should have been shouting defiance, or at least whispering denials, but…something, made her accept it at face value, the truth finally revealed to her._

 _Darth Achaia made to leave. "Preparations for departure are already underway." He said as he passed Catelyn by. "Make certain you are ready as well by the time of departure. I take my leave."_

Catelyn leaned her head back against her seat, tuning out the Imperials as they spoke in their strange, foreign tongue, no doubt about a battle being fought beneath their feet on the ground below, between themselves and Lord Manderly's bannermen. "Pardon me, my lady." A soldier said, and Catelyn turned to him. "We're about to make our final descent."

Catelyn nodded, and the soldier turned and returned to his seat. Catelyn sighed and braced herself, bucking herself in, and thinking to herself that even if she flew aboard one of the Sith's flying machines a hundred times, she would still not get used to flying. And why would, or should she? If men were meant to fly, then the gods would have given them wings.

As the shuttle began to descend to the ground, Catelyn's thoughts turned back to Jon and his parentage. Surprisingly, now that she had the truth and had accepted it, she found herself…lacking, the desire to lash out against Jon any further. She didn't know why, but…she just did.

Or perhaps she did. " _Ned loved Ashara before me._ " Catelyn thought to herself. " _And a part of him probably always loved her, until the day he died. But…he and I…we grew to love each other. I know we did. If not…then Robb, and maybe Sansa as well, would have been all born of us both. But…it wasn't just Robb and Sansa…we also had Arya, and Brandon. Yes…in the end, Ned loved me, and I loved him. That should be enough. Jon…so long as he knows his place…then…_ "

Catelyn's thoughts came to an end as the shuttle landed, and then soldiers were unbuckling themselves in haste before rushing out. Catelyn also unbuckled herself, but waited until a soldier came asking for her presence outside.

Emerging from the shuttle, Catelyn found herself in the main courtyard of the New Castle, seat of House Manderly of White Harbor. Made from pale white stone and standing atop a hill that rose high above but within the city of White Harbor, it looked out over the city, and thence to the lands and waters beyond.

Imperial soldiers stood in a protective line with weapons raised, while opposite them were the household guards of House Manderly, tridents pointed at the strangely-armored soldiers. "Stand down!" Lord Manderly shouted as he emerged from the doorway into the keep, and after a moment his household guards did likewise.

Catelyn turned to the man in charge of her guard detail, one First Lieutenant Josrow Shrenick. Placing a hand on the man's shoulder, he glanced once at Catelyn and then nodding, had his soldiers do likewise.

Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Catelyn. "Lady Stark," he began. "Is that you?"

"Yes, it is I." Catelyn said while stepping forward, stopping only a few steps from Lord Manderly.

"…it's true, then." Lord Manderly said after a moment.

Catelyn lowered her head, and took a deep shuddering breath before nodding. "My husband…Lord Eddard Stark, is dead." She said. "He died in battle. With our armies defeated, my son, Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell and the North, has bent knee and sworn his loyalty to the Sith Empire."

Lord Manderly lowered his head for a moment. "I see…perhaps we should speak of this inside." He said.

Catelyn nodded and made to follow, and while the Manderly household guards initially made to stop the Imperials from proceeding, a gesture from Lord Manderly had them standing down. In the end, Lieutenant Shrenick and one other Imperial soldier accompanied Catelyn into New Castle's keep.

* * *

"And?" Lord Manderly said as he sat behind his desk in his study. "What are the empire's terms?"

"They simply ask that we bend knee and swear our allegiance to the Emperor of the Sith Empire." Catelyn said. "In return, we are recognized as his subjects, with all the rights and obligations that come with it. Furthermore, our titles and privileges will be acknowledged and upheld by the empire."

"Hmm…" Lord Manderly hummed while leaning back in his seat, the wood creaking in protest at the man's weight. "Well, there is really no choice, is there? Lord Stark has bent knee, hasn't he?"

"He has."

"Then House Manderly, and our bannermen, will likewise bend knee." Lord Manderly said with a sigh. "Given any other situation, with my sons likely dead or taken prisoner on the Barrowlands, I wouldn't…but I…we are loyal to the Starks. If this is House Stark's will…then it will be done."

Catelyn curtsied deeply before Lord Manderly. "But," Lord Manderly continued. "You do know this will cause…problems, further south, do you not?"

"I do." Catelyn said before turning briefly at the Imperial soldiers present in the room. "But, now that we are…traitors, to the Iron Throne, and with our armies smashed, and our lands thus undefended, we…expect, to be defended by our sworn overlords in the Sith Empire."

"And will they?"

Catelyn turned to Lieutenant Shrenik. "The Sith Empire will of course defend its sovereign territory." The man said. "Indeed, it is partly for that purpose, as much as part of the lord's obligations to the empire, that we will be stationing a garrison here at White Harbor."

"A garrison, you say." Lord Manderly said with narrowed eyes. "How many men?"

"Two battalions, for a total of one thousand, and three hundred men, not including supporting personnel and droids." The lieutenant said. "For this purpose, we would requisition the stronghold known as the Wolf's Den to house the garrison."

"And…what shall be the relationship between the garrison and my men?"

"The garrison and your men may have separate commands if that is your wish." The lieutenant answered. "But as the recognized lord of this fief under His Majesty, then you are of course ultimately in command of both your levies and the Imperial garrison. With some exceptions, of course."

"And those exceptions are?"

"Imperial High Command naturally has precedent," the lieutenant said. "And below that your immediate superior Lord Robb Stark would also have precedent. And of course, the Imperial garrison will not countenance rebellion or other, similar activities against the empire."

Lord Manderly nodded a few times. "I expected as much." He said. "Very well, as I have already said, we will follow Lord Stark's lead in this matter. And as per our…obligations, to the empire, I will allow the empire to garrison men in the city, in particular at the Wolf's Den. Though, keep in mind the castle is old, and may not be suitable for mass habitation without some work. Also, we keep it as a prison, and we would ask that it remain such until alternative accommodations can be found for the criminals within."

The lieutenant nodded. "Those requests are reasonable," he said. "And shall be of no real issue. General Granger and Lord Achaia will agree of that I am certain."

Lord Manderly nodded. "And one more thing." He said before narrowing his eyes. "King Robert is already well on his way north, with an army of a hundred thousand men. I trust the empire will be able to fulfil its mandate to defend us? In the king's eyes, we are fit only for the headman's block."

"Measures are already underway, if not in place already, to deal with the issue of the army marching north."

* * *

The Causeway is a raised embankment running through the Neck, or rather between the Neck and the Bite, a bay of the Narrow Sea to the east of Westeros. The Kingsroad runs over the Causeway, the only route for mass, overland transit to and from the North and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.

It was now also a graveyard for the soldiers of the Royal Army, with the Sith Imperial Army having taken and rebuilt Moat Cailin at the northern end of the Causeway. Originally a ruined castle except for three, enduring towers, it was a traditional defense of the North against invasion from the south over the Causeway.

Any attackers passing over the Causeway would be limited in their mobility by the narrowness of the route, hemmed in by the sea on one side, and by swamps and bogs on the other. The road itself passed under and between the three towers of Moat Cailin, leaving potential attackers vulnerable to defensive fire from the tower's defenders.

The Imperials had taken the abandoned and ruined castle, and transformed it into a modern firebase to hold the Causeway. Moats had been drained, their resident lizard-lions either killed or captured before being released into the Neck, after which Imperial engineers had dug down deep until they reached bedrock.

Quick-setting rockcrete was then poured into the pits, reinforced with durasteel beams, to form gun pits for batteries of howitzers and mortars. The surrounding ground was cleared and levelled, before being surrounded by prefabricated duraplast walls armored and reinforced with durasteeel. Flooring had been laid down with prefabricated permacrete slabs, before prefabricated facilities were raised: barracks, storehouses for consumables, a motor pool, a landing pad, and others.

A new bunker had been dug, its walls not simply reinforced but outright hardened, for its purpose was to store ammunition for the guns of Moat Cailin. The towers of Moat Cailin were rebuilt, with the Children's Tower now housing modern communications and sensor equipment, both linked to the command bunker below, providing real-time contact with Imperial forces elsewhere and to provide targeting for the gun batteries.

The Gatehouse Tower was also rebuilt, and turned into the central strongpoint for a defensive line which ran perpendicular to the Causeway. Zigzagging trenches ran out from either side of the Gatehouse Tower, several layers deep, linked to each other by communication trenches. Mortar pits and repeater nests had been dug and laid down, and the trenches manned at all times by Imperial soldiers.

The Drunkard's Tower was also rebuilt, and renamed as the Annex. It housed secondary communication systems, a backup command center, and included the firebase's power plant.

Construction on Firebase Cailin had barely been complete when the first challenge came, as outriders of the Royal Army thundered up the causeway, bearing and flying the colors of the Vale Lords. They were met by fire from blaster rifles and repeating heavy blasters, and several prisoners were taken, who were then stripped of their secrets.

More men came soon after, and like those before bore and flew the colors of the Vale Lords. Again, they were met with murderous volley fire, and those few taken prisoner stripped of their secrets.

A third reconnaissance attempt from the south soon followed, but of a different sort. Infiltrating on foot under cover of darkness, the scouts took advantage of the terrain to the west to find an opening to exploit. Only motion sensors foiled their attempt, and even then their leader, one Ser Brynden 'the Blackfish' Tully was able to escape.

No more reconnaissance attempts came, the king from the south having reached the limit of his patience. A column of five thousand men marched up the Causeway, bearing and flying the colors of the Storm Lords.

The empire responded with equal parts boldness and subtlety. Rather than use HE rounds that could damage the Causeway itself, the garrison commander, Major General Hamohadd, decided to apply the same tactic used by the empire to clear out troublesome guerilla fighters infesting the Neck: chemical weapons.

Given the Causeway's importance as the only real overland route between the northern province and the rest of the western continent, persistent agents were out of the question, but the empire did have non-persistent agents in their repertoire of toxins. One of those, Agent B, was chosen.

Agent B was a colorless and extremely poisonous blood agent, and while having numerous legitimate uses in the chemical industry, had been declared illegal for battlefield use by the Galactic Senate. Not that the Sith Empire cared, of course, much like with Agent X.

In addition to being non-persistent, Agent B was quite volatile, lighter than air in fact. This meant that it had to be deployed in greater quantities than other chemical weapons would usually be deployed in, otherwise it would dissipate too quickly to have an effect. This was however, offset by the fact that as previously-mentioned, Agent B had plenty of legitimate uses, and could thus be produced and stockpiled in much greater quantities than other chemical weapons.

Rockets and mortar rounds fell shrieking among the Stormland column, punching holes into their formation as men got out of the way of the falling rounds. Warheads gurgled in their craters, filling the air with the strong scent of almonds, soldiers coughing and struggling to breathe through the miasma clogging the air. This was followed by weakness, soldiers groggily stumbling around, before collapsing, some clutching their chests as their hearts seized up, while others convulsed violently or just lay on the ground, eyes wide and panicked mouths gaping desperately for air that their muscles and lungs could no longer pull in.

Within a matter of minutes, thousands of men were dead or dying on the Causeway, the survivors fleeing back whence they came.

They would not be the last.

* * *

"The Royal Army is here." Darth Achaia said, pointing at the map and a location just south of where the Causeway ended in the Riverlands. "They block our overland route from the northern province into the rest of the western continent. While we could power through, I'd rather not have our mobility and tactical options limited by the narrowness of the Causeway."

"There's also the concern that the Causeway might not be able to handle the weight of our tanks and crawlers." General Granger said. "It could always be rebuilt after the fact, but I would prefer to do things cleanly."

"Indeed," Darth Achaia said. "In any case, that fat man who calls himself a king is continuing to stubbornly bash his head against Firebase Cailin, sending men to be gassed to death."

"Well," Lord Axcis said. "We did kill his best friend and bond brother, so it's understandable he's being rather stubborn."

"Perhaps," Darth Achaia said. "Though I expected better from someone the natives hailed as a military pioneer…though that was years ago, and it may be the man has gone to seed."

There were nods and murmurs at that. Darth Achaia then focused on the west of the Riverlands. "I think it's time we escalated this war." He said. "I'm told the rest of the western continent has a dim view of their northern neighbors, viewing them as semi-barbaric by comparison. No doubt, they think lightly of our victory as a result. If so, then we'll smash their illusions here and now."

"What do you aim to do, my lord?" Lord Felicis asked.

Darth Achaia pointed at the castle of Seagard along the west coast of the Riverlands. "Leaving only our garrison at White Harbor plus Firebase Cailin here in the northern province," he began. "We'll take our forces, and land them here, at Seagard. Not just the mechanized corps already on the ground, but also the remaining two mechanized corps."

There was shock at that. "So we're committing all we have, is it?" General Granger said before smiling. "Shock and awe it is then."

"Indeed," Darth Achaia agreed. "We'll push forward, with the three mechanized corps leading, and capture the Twins. Nine infantry divisions will then dig in along the west bank of the Green Fork, with one mechanized corps crossing at the Twins and moving to attack the Royal Army head on. In the meantime, the other two mechanized corps will cross the river to the north and south, and then outflanking both flanks of the Royal Army encircle and pocket it."

Approving nods and murmurs went up. "General Granger will lead our first formation." Darth Achaia continued. "The remaining mechanized corps will be commanded by Lords Felicis and Axcis respectively. Lysus will command the infantry, while I deal with the Lord of the West."

"Might I ask, how you plan to do so, my lord?" Lysus asked.

"I will need three infantry divisions, with reinforcing artillery brigades." Darth Achaia said. "And my flagship, the _Impetuous._ "

Darth Achaia paused and smiled viciously as the rest of the Sith's leaders murmured at what their leader was planning. "I hear Lord Tywin Lannister is a proud man." He said. "Let's see just how much his pride is worth."

* * *

A/N

Nope, nope, nope…R plus L does not equal J. Not in this story. That might be the case in _Game of Thrones_ , but in _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , it's still unconfirmed. So…E plus A will equal J here.

Agent B…is hydrogen cyanide. More nasty stuff…


	9. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Wars: The Old Republic_ , which is the property of BioWare and LucasArts. Neither do I own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , which is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Falling Shadows

Chapter 8

Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, sat with his sister-wife on a field of flowers that reached as far as the eye could see. They watched as their children played happily in the spring sunshine, chasing after each other and at butterflies and dragonflies that flew lazily above the bobbing heads of the flowers in the soft and gentle breeze.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" Cersei Lannister asked, leaning against her brother and husband, his arm around her shoulders.

"Myrcella is beautiful." Jaime said. "Joffrey and Tommen are _handsome_."

Cersei laughed and playful elbowed her brother at his play of words. "Oh stop, you." She said.

Jaime laughed and leaned his head against his sister's, taking in the sweet scent of her hair. "They'll have a bright future ahead of them." He said. "Joffrey will be Lord of the West after me, and whose reign will be remembered as a time of peace and plenty. Tommen will be a knight, the greatest in the world, whose skill with the sword will be legendary, and whose honor will be beyond question."

"Hmm…and what about Myrcella…?" Cersei asked, wrapping her arms around Jaime.

"Myrcella…will be the fairest maiden in the land." Jaime said before smiling teasingly. "Even fairer than you."

Cersei pouted at that, and then chuckled. "I can live with that." She said. "She's our daughter after all. It's only natural that she takes after me, and be the fairest of all."

Jaime laughed. "I expected that." He said. "But yes, she'll be the fairest maiden in the land. Knights and lords from all corners of the world will come seeking her hand, though almost all will be unworthy of her."

"And who will be worthy of her?"

Jaime tilted his head with a thoughtful frown, and then smiling, shrugged. "I don't know." He said. "I'd say it'll be Joffrey and Tommen who'll decide who that'll be, and defend their sister's honor."

Cersei laughed. "Such an irresponsible lord and father," she said. "Passing off your responsibilities to you sons instead of handling them yourself. But…I suppose it shows your confidence in them, so I guess I can accept it."

Jaime laughed, looking at his sister and meeting her eyes. After a moment, they closed their eyes, and leaning closer to each other…

Ser Jaime Lannister, Knight of the Kingsguard, woke noisily and painfully, falling off his chair and landing on the floor with the loud clatter of plate striking stone. Shaking his head, the young knight rubbed blearily at his eyes, and then looking around him clambered shakily to his feet. "Huh…" he said to himself, blinking at his surroundings. "…it was a dream. A very, strange, and surreal dream. Cersei and me…"

Jaime trailed off, looking off into the distance, thinking of his sweet and beautiful sister. The first, and only woman so far, who had captured his heart. And then he thought of King Aerys, and the screams and begging that came from her bedchambers when the king took his pleasure, and Jaime shuddered.

"Cersei…not meant to be…and probably for the best…" he muttered to himself, turning to leave the chamber. Stepping out the door, he looked either way down the corridor, finding it bereft of any guards or servants. In the distance though, he could hear the echoes of laughter, his brothers no doubt gathered in the common room for some reason.

Taking a deep breath and rubbing his eyes, Jaime left his chambers and made his way down to the first floor, and entered the common room. There was the Lord Commander, Ser Gerold Hightower, called the White Bull for his great strength in his prime. Then there was Ser Barristan Selmy, called the Bold for his playing the part of a mystery knight in a tourney at Blackhaven, aged a mere ten summers at the time.

There was Prince Lewyn of Dorne, Ser Jonothor Darry, Ser Oswell Whent, and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and the greatest swordsman in the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms...

The laughter stopped as Jaime entered the common room, eyes turning to him in confusion and causing Jaime to halt mid-step. "What are you doing here?" Ser Gerold asked belligerently.

Jaime blinked in confusion. "W-what do you mean what am I doing here?" he asked. "I'm a member of the Kingsguard, so I…"

"You?" Ser Gerold asked, his face twisted with disdain. "A member of the Kingsguard? Don't make me laugh. What kind of Kingsguard would turn on his own king?"

And then suddenly Jaime was no longer in the common room, no he was in the throne room. In the distance, he could hear screaming, and smell the stink of fire and smoke in the air, and he _remembered_.

"No…" he whispered, staring at the corpse of Aerys Targaryen, the second of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Faith, his neck slit and his blood pooling around him as he lay dead on the dais before the Iron Throne…

…and the same blood dripping from Jaime's sword, held slackly in one hand.

"I had such high hopes for you, Ser Jaime." Ser Arthur said, standing with Ser Gerold, Prince Lewyn, Ser Jonothor, and Ser Oswell, the five of them standing in a semicircle before Jaime and Ser Barristan, their swords drawn. "Such high hopes…what a waste…"

"I…I…I had to do it!" Jaime blurted out, desperation filling his words. "He would have burned the entire city down if I didn't kill him! Hundreds of thousands would have…!"

"You swore a vow to guard the king, not to judge him." Ser Gerold said coldly, advancing implacably and causing Jaime to step back, shaking his head from side to side in denial.

"I…you expect…are you saying…I should have let the city burn…madness…you…you cannot be…" Jaime whispered hoarsely.

"And my niece?" Prince Lewyn asked just as coldly. "Her son and daughter? What about them, Ser Jaime? Did they deserve to die as die as they did?"

"I didn't know!" Jaime shouted, his voice heavy with guilt. "I didn't think my father would kill them!"

"Liar." The Kingsguard chorused. "What else could you have expected, from someone like Tywin Lannister, a man whose killed an entire house down to the last child just to cement his hold on power, and had his own good-daughter gang-raped to teach his youngest son a lesson?"

The blood drained from Jaime's face. "H-how did you about that?" he asked, holding his sword shaking before him. Not about the Reynes of Castamere, everyone knew about that, but…Tyrion…his wife, Tysha…

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Ser Oswell groused.

"And you…Ser Barristan…" Ser Gerold said, turning to their other brother present.

"You were there with us…on the Trident." Prince Lewyn said sadly.

"We fought together, as brothers." Ser Oswell said just as sadly.

"Fought and died…" Prince Lewyn said. "With valor and honor…at least, that's how it went for Ser Oswell and me. What about you though?"

"You bent knee." Ser Gerold said, closing his eyes and looking away in shame. "You submitted before the Usurper, profaning your oaths as one of the Kingsguard! You stained our brotherhood!"

"…I did." Ser Barristan said.

"You shamed the title of knight, and everything it stands for, when you stood by as the Usurper gloated over the bodies of Princess Elia and her children!" Ser Arthur roared. "When you cheered along with the rest as Tywin Lannister was rewarded for his treachery and butchery by having his daughter as the Usurper's queen!"

Ser Barristan took a deep shuddering breath, slumping over as though burdened with great weight. "Yes…yes I did." He whispered.

"You know what's going to happen, Ser Barristan." Ser Gerold said.

"Yes, yes I do." Ser Barristan said softly.

"NO!" Jaime said, leaping forward but it was already too late. Blood spilled down Ser Barristan's cloak, down his armor, and onto the ground, as a pair of swords plunged into his chest. Those of Prince Lewyn and Ser Jonothor, who had fought and died with honor at the Trident, true to their oaths.

"…thank you…brothers…and farewell…" Ser Barristan murmured, slumping down onto his knees and then sliding backwards off their blades to lie dead on the ground.

Jaime roared incoherently, charging his brothers with sword raised high. It fell, and met Dawn, ancestral sword of House Dayne, and shattered into countless pieces. In the next moment Jaime was flying back, blood splattering from his face as Ser Arthur's armored fist punched into him.

He staggered back, coming to a halt against a tall figure from which Jaime stumbled forward. Half-turning, Jaime's eyes widened in horror as his eyes fell on the bloody figure of Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone. "No…my prince…I…" he whispered.

"I asked you to protect my family, Ser Jaime." Prince Rhaegar said accusingly.

Words failed Jaime, who could only stagger back, mouth working soundlessly. Turning, he tried to flee, only to meet Ser Arthur once more. Dawn flashed twice, shattering the clasps holding Jaime's cloak in place. It fell to the ground, and burst into flames around his feet.

Shouting in surprise, Jaime fell back, onto the ground, scampering away from his burning cloak, and the vengeful shades of his liege and brothers. Coming to a halt against another pair of legs, Jaime turned…

…and could only gasp as cold, pallid fingers wrapped themselves around his neck, and with inhuman strength lifted him into the air. "It's been a long time, hasn't it, Ser Jaime?" Princess Elia asked sweetly, her voice just as Jaime remembered it, and a horrifying contrast to her bloody and broken appearance. "Ten years…ten years it has been since that black day…ten years have I awaited my vengeance…at last it comes…not from the cruel and uncaring gods, but from the darkness all fear but truly know nothing about…"

Elia's fingers tightened around Jaime's neck, the knight desperately prying at the princess' hands to try and breathe, lashing out with desperate kicks that seemed to have no effect on the princess at all. And then Elia laughed, and even as darkness crept into his eyesight, Jaime felt his hair begin to rise on end at the sound.

"Oh you poor, pathetic fool," Elia said teasingly. "I'm already dead. You can't hurt me, and you can't stop me from getting what's mine."

And with that, Elia's fingers crushed inward, and broke Jaime's neck.

Ser Jaime Lannister, Knight of the Kingsguard woke with a start, falling off his bed flailing and gasping. Scrambling away and rubbing at himself in the cold night air, he came to a stop against the wall, looking around him in fear and horror. It was night, and he was in his chambers within the White Sword Tower.

Rubbing his eyes and his neck, and struggling to calm his madly-beating heart, Jaime suddenly remembered what Elia told him in the nightmare, and felt a chill run down his spine.

 _…you can't stop me from getting what's mine._

* * *

"Ser Barristan is dead?" Lord Yohn 'Bronze Yohn' Royce of Runestone asked incredulously. "How?"

"He died in his sleep, apparently." Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard sadly said.

Lord Royce sighed. "First Lord Arryn," he said. "And now Ser Barristan. This expedition is turning into a disaster."

"We must inform the king." Ser Arys said.

"Yes, I know." Lord Royce said, already walking away to where Robert's tent was located. Two more of the Kingsguard were present there, guarding the entrance. The sounds of practiced moans punctuated with periodic shrieks of ecstasy could be heard from inside. The sounds had Ser Arys and Lord Royce coming to a halt with uneasy expressions on their faces.

"So early in the morning…" Lord Royce muttered.

"You get used to the king's habits soon enough." Ser Arys said with a shrug. "We had to."

"You _are_ the kingsguard." Lord Royce said before stepping forward. "Inform the king we have news."

"The king is otherwise indisposed." Ser Mandon Moore said.

"And this news is important." Lord Royce said.

"The king's instructed us that he is not to be disturbed for anything less than an enemy sortie across the Causeway." Ser Mandon persisted.

Lord Royce drew himself up. "I wonder then," he said. "How pleased he will be, when he learns that delivering news of his brother in all but blood's death, was delayed."

Ser Mandon raised an eyebrow, and exchanging a glance with Ser Boros Blount, turned back to Lord Royce. "Wait here," he said. "I will inform the king."

Lord Royce nodded, and Ser Mandon entered the tent. The moaning continued for a few more moments, and then stopping for a couple of moments was followed by a loud roar. A few moments later, and the red-faced Robert rushed out of his tent covered in sweat and wearing only a hastily-donned pair of breeches.

Lord Royce and the Kingsguard present bowed before their king. "Is it true?" Robert demanded. "Is Ned dead?"

"According to the missive sent from King's Landing," Lord Royce said. "It is. Varys' spies at White Harbor informed him that Lady Catelyn arrived at the city some days ago, bringing word of her husband's death…"

The Lord of Runestone broke off as Robert roared in fury, and drawing Ser Boros' sword from its sheath went on a rampage nearby, kicking at crates and barrels and lashing out with the sword. The Kingsguard looked at each other uneasily, while Lord Royce looked on with a mix of sympathy and contempt.

After a few moments, Robert finally came to a stop, taking deep, shuddering breaths. "…is that all?" he asked.

"…there is more."

"Well spit it out!"

Lord Royce swallowed dryly. "Lord Robb Stark of the North, and his vassals, have all apparently bent knee before the invaders." He said. "Already, Sith soldiers have taken up residence in the Wolf's Den, and are rebuilding the castle to protect the city from invasion by sea."

Robert snarled, kicking a nearby crate to pieces, its contents already strewn on the ground from his earlier rampage. "Traitors!" he spat. "Oathbreakers! Cowards! Worse, they defile Ned's memory, spitting on it! How dare they bend knee before the ones who killed him?"

Roaring incoherently, Robert swung his sword at a nearby tree, shearing a third of the way through before the blade came to a halt. Leaving the sword trapped in the tree, Robert stomped back towards Lord Royce. "Where is Ser Barristan?" he demanded, looking at his Kingsguard, and the rest of the onlookers, who began to disperse, originally drawn by curiosity at the sound of the king's rage.

"Your Grace," Ser Arys began. "I regret to inform you that Ser Barristan has died."

"HE HAS WHAT?" Robert shouted.

"He has died, Your Grace." Ser Arys said. "He died in his sleep."

Robert ground his teeth, barely able to hold back at lashing out at the late Ser Barristan's memory, if only thanks to knowing that no man had the power to resist death when it came in such a way. If the gods decided that one's time was come, then it simply was.

"Your Grace," Lord Royce began uneasily. "There is…one more part of the missive from King's Landing."

"WHAT?"

Lord Royce lowered his head. "The Royal Fleet is overdue to arrive at the Arbor." He said. "Long overdue…and from reports of some kind of cataclysm in the Stepstones which devastated the shores of Dorne, southwestern Essos, and drowned most of Tyrosh, we fear the Royal Fleet, and your lord brother, have been drowned in the cataclysm as well."

In response, Robert's roar of fury was heard across the entirety of the camp.

* * *

The Fall of Lannisport was quick and brutal. _Supremacy_ fighters swooped out from over the sea, laser bolts flying and blowing apart what few ships the Lannister Fleet had replaced of those destroyed by the Ironborn during the Greyjoy Rebellion just a few years ago.

The barracks and towers of the Harbor Guard followed, along with the palisades which guarded the entrances from the harbor into the city. Then the barracks of the City Watch followed, and the towers which were the strongpoints of the city's protective wall, and then the highest towers of the keep of the Lannisters of Lannisport.

Panic erupted in the streets of the city, smallfolk running to and fro, men of the City Watch struggling through the crowds to get to where they were trained to go in case of an attack. Not that it would do them much good, as none of their training involved fighting enemies with flying machines…

…or dare they say, metal _dragons_ of some kind?

Inevitably, panic gave birth to anarchy, as criminals, poorer individuals, and those simply swept away by the air of chaos turned to looting and random violence, ranging from mugging those who appeared to have money to mass rapes of women who found themselves helpless and alone in the streets. The famed goldworks and craft halls of Lannisport were stormed by maddened smallfolk, who snatched all the gold, silver, and jewels they could find, stuffing them into pockets and pouches, fighting over the spoils, and in a few cases, killing and cutting open those who worked and owned such places, on rumors that they had swallowed uncut gems and nuggets of gold and silver to keep them from the hands of looters.

The panic and anarchy only grew worse as the _Impetuous_ lumbered over the city from over the sea, shuttles flying in low to land in city squares, where they disembarked Imperial soldiers, their armor striped in white and grey, to better fight in urban environments with. Other troops rappelled down onto buildings in key parts of the city, to seize control of road junctions and the like, while others seized the city's walls and gates.

Soon, Imperial soldiers were formed up, and advancing on the city keep from three directions. Maddened crowds struggled to get out of their way, to little avail. The Sith had foreseen such an outcome, and responded with Agent A, a simple chemical weapon widely used across the galaxy to break riots and to clear unauthorized demonstrations. Even within the Republic Agent, A was in use, though it was very controversial for many elements.

Generous use of Agent A cleared the crowds with satisfactory results, until finally, the Imperial columns were before Lannisport's keep. Major Brayjac Creeaki gave the order to halt from his command APC, and ordered the holo-projector activated. From the soldiers on the battlements of the keep to the Lannisters huddled inside, they all gasped as a shimmering, blue-tinted image of a man cloaked and hooded in black appeared before them.

"Lannisters of Lannisport," he began. "I am Darth Achaia, Lord of the Sith, and Commander of the Expeditionary Force sent to bring your world into the fold of the Sith Empire. I come before you bearing a gift, the gift of choice. It is the greatest gift of all, for choice is the essence of freedom. Only in choosing, are any of us truly free, and so few of us are ever granted the opportunity to _truly_ choose."

The newly-introduced Darth Achaia paused, and gestured at the city behind, smoke rising into the sky, and at the _Impetuous_ hanging overhead. "You have seen our might." He said. "You have heard of the fall of the North, and the Iron Islands. You might have heard how they chose to bend knee, to submit to the Sith Empire, and I tell you that it is true. In choosing to submit, they continue to live, and perhaps in time, to grow stronger than they have ever been."

Darth Achaia drew himself up. "And now it is your turn to choose, Lannisters of Lannisport." He said. "Choose, submit to live and prosper, or refuse to submit and die. If you wish for proof of our resolve, allow me to offer this demonstration."

At those words, a turbolaser battery on the _Impetuous_ aimed one of its guns at the waters of the distant sea, and fired. A crimson bolt flew out across the city, over the waters, and struck the surface far from the land. From their windows high in the keep, pale-faced and shaking Lannisters saw the column of vapor and spray in the distance, and a short while after heard the roaring boom and felt the windows ever so slightly shake.

"You have one hour." Darth Achaia said, before his hologram faded.

Lannisport surrendered in fifteen minutes. Within hours, a delegation from Casterly Rock led by Ser Kevan Lannister was urgently asking to speak with Darth Achaia on behalf of his brother, Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands.

* * *

A sullen air hung over Seagard, townsfolk watching with apprehension and resentment as soldiers armored in grey and white marched down the streets of their town, along with their tanks and APCs. Banners of red, black, and white flew from the castle, now under the control of the Sith Empire.

The town and castle had been all but defenseless, most able-bodied men having left with their lord and his heir to join the Royal Army. Only the household guards were left, along with some men to man the ships. The ships had been the first to be destroyed, and then the household guards were overwhelmed and forcing the castle's steward to surrender.

General Granger decided to leave a company of men to hold the town and castle, the latter to be outfitted with an orbital relay to boost communications between the forces on the ground to the fleet in orbit. Engineers were hard at work, but most of the Sith were outside the town, assembling their forces for the drive to the Trident.

There were three armored divisions, along with eight mechanized infantry divisions. There were also nine infantry divisions, bringing up the Sith's troop strength to some three hundred thousand men, and over seven hundred tanks. This did not include other types of AFVs and vehicles available, as well as artillery pieces and other equipment.

A supply stockpile would not be built up, instead, the forces on the ground would be resupplied daily by transports flying down to the surface from orbit. Not the most efficient means of supporting logistics, but when speed was critical, then it would do.

"So, the enemy knows we're here." Lord Axcis said.

"It seems that way, my lord." General Granger said. "According to the local steward, they managed to get word out before he surrendered."

"Well, it's all according to plan, so we'll let it go." Lord Axcis said.

"Has the enemy made a move?" Lysus asked.

General Granger activated the holo-projector, which showed a map of the Riverlands. "The Royal Army is turning west, while leaving a holding force to the south of the Causeway." He said. "As expected, they're headed for the Twins. Based on their daily rate of advance, I will depart tomorrow morning, and capture the Twins by the end of the day. On the following morning, I will cross the Trident, and move to engage the Royal Army head on."

"In the meantime," Lysus said. "As per the predetermined plan, I'll be digging in along the west bank, while Lords Axcis and Felicis cross to the north and south, with the goal of enveloping the enemy."

"Do you have a problem with this strategy, young warrior?" Lord Felicis asked.

"Not as such," Lysus said. "I understand that our objective is to use shock and awe to stun the natives and make them more receptive to simply and quietly submit to us, but it's really such a complex thing to pull off."

Lords Axcis and Felicis looked at each other, and with a shrug smiled at the younger Sith's remarks. "Well," Lysus continued. "Even though it seems like we're playing with the natives, let's play to win regardless. I don't like losing."

"Neither do I." Lord Axcis said.

"Nor I." Lord Felicis said.

General Granger coughed, and then looking around the table nodded. "If there are no other issues," he said. "Then let us proceed with our given tasks."

* * *

A/N

Cross Ser Barristan off the list, and welcome Jaime, to a living hell. Funny how Cersei always seems to focus on Tyrion as the 'little brother' referred to in her prophecy, when in fact Jaime is also her little brother.

It is surprisingly hard to write Robert, if only because I feel like I'm dumbing myself down just to write him. So one-dimensional…

…I could be wrong, but that's all I get from him in the books or the series.


	10. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Wars: The Old Republic_ , which is the property of BioWare and LucasArts. Neither do I own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , which is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Falling Shadows

Chapter 9

"I, Lord Tywin Lannister, pledge my loyalty to the Immortal Emperor of the Sith, and submit myself, my family, and our heirs, to his mercy until the end of time. By the Grace of the Seven that are One, so say I, Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands."

Darth Achaia nodded in acknowledgement. "And in the Name of the Immortal Emperor of the Sith," he said. "I, Darth Achaia, Lord of the Sith, bear witness. May the Force serve you well, Lord Tywin Lannister, as you serve the Emperor."

With a snap-hiss, Darth Achaia deactivated his saberstaff. "Rise, my lord." He said, and gestured for Tywin to follow. "We have much to discuss."

Tywin said nothing as he did as commanded, and followed Darth Achaia across the _Impetuous_ ' bridge, to where a large holo-table was standing. At present it was displaying the city of Lannisport below, with the _Impetuous_ hovering overhead. Order was being restored with brutal efficiency, between the City Watch of Lannisport and the soldiers of the Sith Empire disembarked from the dreadnought hovering overhead.

"I must admit, Lord Lannister," Darth Achaia began. "You have quite the reputation to your name. It is quite impressive, and shows much promise as to what you can offer us."

"And what is it have you heard of me, Lord Achaia?" Tywin asked, carefully keeping his voice and facial expression neutral.

"First and foremost, that you are an efficient administrator." Darth Achaia replied. "For all that your fiefdom has great deposits of valuable metals, that is both blessing and curse in equal measure. Properly harnessed, it can bring immense wealth and prosperity to the fief at large, but if mismanaged, then it is quite likely the fief would be but a dismal mine, with wealth and prosperity monopolized by a small handful."

Tywin shrugged. "I take my responsibilities seriously, Lord Achaia." He said. "The Westerlands are my birthright, but it belongs not solely to me, but to my family, our ancestors, and our descendants. Furthermore, the smallfolk who dwell upon our lands rightfully look to us for their protection and wellbeing. I would not insult my forebears and my descendants by failing to take care of what was entrusted to me by birth. And neither would I have any reason to deny those under my rule what little they ask of me. At the very least, as those who provide the labor to ensure our prosperity, the smallfolk deserve a measure of reward. A peaceful and content existence is a good reward for loyal service, I daresay."

"Yes," Darth Achaia said with a nod. "Serve well, and your masters will treat you well. And what power one possesses today is not one's alone, but is sum and product of those who came before, and will one day be passed on to another who will follow in one's footsteps."

"As you say, Lord Achaia."

"It's not just the Westerlands, though." Darth Achaia continued. He pressed the controls of the holo-table, which zoomed out to show first the Westerlands, and then the whole of Westeros. Tywin stared at the display with veiled wonder. He knew not how such machinery worked, but he could see how much more accurate it was than even the best maps produced by the Citadel or the navigation guilds of the Free Cities. And he understood its potential value quite well, along with everything else the Sith Empire offered.

At the very least, not being obliterated by this…metal, behemoth which hung over the skies of Lannisport was an obvious benefit.

"You served as…Hand, was it?"

"That is correct, my lord."

Darth Achaia nodded. "You served as Hand to the King for one King Aerys II." He said. "Also known as the Mad King, though at the time his madness had yet to truly reach its nadir. Or perhaps, was that also your influence?"

Tywin took a deep breath. "I would not go so far as to say I kept Aerys' madness in check," he modestly said. "As much as I managed it."

"Of course," Darth Achaia said. "Continuing from before though, from what records we have studied as provided by your people's maesters, under your tenure the Seven Kingdoms enjoyed a degree of peace, prosperity, and stability not seen in generations, and which came to an end following your dismissal by the Mad King. And even under King Robert's rule, the Seven Kingdoms have not returned to that which it enjoyed under your governance."

"Lord Arryn is an able administrator in his own right." Tywin said, coming to the defense of a fellow Lord Paramount and a man he genuinely respected. "I would say that his fault lay in his inability to manage King Robert's spendthrift ways, and not from any real incompetence on his part."

"Yes…your records and our analysis suggests as such." Darth Achaia said with a slow nod. "Therefore, it can be said beyond doubt that you are an efficient and capable administrator."

Tywin said nothing, merely giving a small bow of acknowledgement at such praise. "Moving on," Darth Achaia said. "You have also shown yourself to be at once ruthless and pragmatic, and in a good way, at that."

"How would you say so, Lord Achaia?"

"You are not cruel for the sake of cruelty." Darth Achaia said. "And as previously mentioned, you have brought prosperity to those under your governance. To you, cruelty is a means to an end, and not a means in itself. And such is worthy of respect."

"…I imagine, you refer to the Targaryens and the Reynes?"

"Yes," Darth Achaia said with a smile and a nod. "I will not speak of the circumstances behind the Reynes' rising to such prominence as to be able to pose a real challenge and threat to your family's rule, but your successful suppression of their revolt, plus their fates and the example it set speak for themselves. Likewise, your neutrality during the earlier phase of Robert's Rebellion, when things seemed to be balanced on the knife's edge, speaks of a pragmatic approach when it came to choosing one side or the other."

"…I will admit that much." Tywin conceded after a moment. "To be sure, at the start of the rebellion, the rebels had the support of four out of the Seven Kingdoms, but of those four, three – the Stormlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale – had partially spent themselves beforehand putting down loyalists in their ranks. And of the kingdoms which supported King Aerys, the Reach – which have the largest army and fleet and wealth second only to the west in the Seven Kingdoms – was among them."

"And the potential rewards were not in consideration?" Darth Achaia asked with a smile.

"From the very beginning, supporting Robert always had the bigger of potential rewards." Tywin said.

"Did it?" Darth Achaia asked with narrowed eyes. "You would have known of then-Lord Baratheon's devotion to that northern princess, and you could not have known she would have died in her little prison in Dorne by the end of the conflict. Do you really think he could have been persuaded to set her aside for your daughter had she lived?"

"She could have been disposed of easily." Tywin remarked, and Darth Achaia laughed.

"Indeed," he said with a nod and a smile. "But as one with the most to gain in such a scenario, suspicion would have fallen on you."

"Mere suspicion is not enough." Tywin responded. "There has to be proof as well. Without it, they could not have moved against me. Lord Arryn would not have allowed it, and Lord Stark is not nearly as bloodthirsty to do so either. And in her absence, Lord Arryn would always support Cersei as King Robert's queen, if only to ensure our support in stabilizing his reign."

"Yes," Darth Achaia said with a slow nod. "Very impressive indeed…but, what of the rewards of supporting King Aerys? What of those?"

"At the very least I would have regained the position of Hand." Tywin mused. "Having my daughter as queen would have required more complex…maneuvers, but there are other ways to secure power. And ultimately, all are academic. What is done is done, unless your people have the means to turn back time."

"Alas, we do not." Darth Achaia said, and Tywin blinked at the sudden and sheer malevolence that briefly flickered over the Sith Lord's face. "Do not fear. It is not for you, but for our ancestral enemies, and the wrongs they have done to our people."

"I…see…"

"How you ultimately secured your place in King Robert's good graces speak for themselves." Darth Achaia continued. "Though I must say, in this case a bit more subtlety was required. The sheer brutality of the Targaryen children's death may have caused more inconvenience, and potential trouble, in the future than there could have been."

"…this is true." Tywin said with a sigh. "The threat they posed by virtue of their claim to the Iron Throne had to be neutralized, but in hindsight, sending Clegane and Lorch may not have been the best decision."

"…in any case, it's an academic matter." Darth Achaia said after a moment. "What matters is that you are able to manage such concerns in the future."

"If it comes to pass that I must, then I will do so, one way or another." Tywin said.

"Good," Darth Achaia said with a nod. "As I said, your reputation speaks well of you, and this short conversation between us has proven so to me."

Darth Achaia again pressed the controls of the holo-table, and this time Tywin could not hide his awe. Not when the whole world was before his eyes. Not just Westeros and those parts of Essos they knew of, much less the legends of Ulthos and those small parts of dread Sothoryos that had been charted, but all of them. He could see all of Essos, stretching from the Narrow Sea to the legendary and unknown shores of the Sunset Sea, and Sothoryos stretching far to the south. There was Ulthos as well, located far west and south of Westeros, and in Essos' case, to their east and south.

"Westeros is but a small part of your world." Darth Achaia said. "And this world shall be part of an even bigger whole, the Sith Empire."

And then Tywin witnessed as he saw the world he was standing on as it was part of something bigger. One world among several circling their Sun, and how it was one of many billions across the night sky, a galaxy in an infinitely-vaster universe. And of that galaxy, he saw the Sith Empire as it stretched out across the stars, from the edges of the outer darkness, to the very heart of the galaxy.

"Lord Lannister," Darth Achaia said. "As of this moment, consider yourself a candidate for the position of Imperial Governor of this world. Know that such a position is hereditary, and as such, given your…regard, for your family's future, such a position will be theirs as well."

In that moment, whatever resentment and frustration Tywin had felt at the Sith for such a humiliation as they had inflicted on him on this day ceased to be. Not when they had offered him the chance to make his family the greatest not just in Westeros or even the known world, but across the entire world as it truly was.

To be sure, there was much work still to be done, to gain such a position. But let it not be said that he did not accept challenges worthy of him, and with equally-worthy rewards.

And perhaps, just perhaps, in time, the Lannister name would not just be one of a single world, but of others as well.

"I will put every effort I have to prove myself worthy of such a post." Tywin said.

"No doubt," Darth Achaia said, before gesturing to one side. A young man stepped forward, and gave a bow. "This is Lieutenant Sek'nos Yarrow. I am assigning him as your aide, and will provide you with information and context with regard to the Sith Empire and the galaxy as a whole. Lieutenant, I trust you will answer all of Lord Lannister's questions and concerns to the best of your ability?"

"It will be done, my lord." The lieutenant said with another bow.

Darth Achaia smiled. "We shall see." He said.

* * *

Sith tanks and other vehicles rumbled over the Twins, the bridges rebuilt over the night thanks to hard and indeed, beyond-called-for labor on the part of Imperial Army engineers. Requests for commendations all around had already been filed, and General Granger had made it clear he would personally see them expedited to a positive outcome.

As for House Frey of the Crossing, well…

…when the Imperial Army had arrived the previous day, Lord Frey's emissaries had expressed willingness to allow them to pass over the bridge and even to submit to the Sith Empire…if the Sith were willing to pay the toll, of course. General Granger was ill-amused, and when an invitation for further talks was extended to be held _inside_ the Twins, the general had decided he had no time left to waste on what were clearly pointless discussions.

Soldiers had been airdropped into the Twins, and seizing the defenses had opened the gates and allowed more soldiers to storm the fortified bridges. Lord Frey was literally dragged out from under his bed, and along with the other, adult males of his family, had been lined up against a wall and shot. The women and children were spared, but were confined to quarters regardless.

Imperial engineers had then gone to work, work that had gone smoothly, and was now bearing fruit. "Over fifty per cent of our forces have crossed the river, sir." The general's adjutant reported. General Granger nodded, standing at a window to look down at the bridges below, where tanks, trucks, and other vehicles were rumbling along to the shouts and gestures of NCOs.

"And the resupply?" he asked, tearing off a strip of local bread and putting it in his mouth. He could say a lot about the locals, but they made good food.

"Proceeding as planned, sir." The adjutant replied, and checking his data-slate. "Units are being resupplied for active combat operations upon reaching predetermined positions on the east bank."

"Good," General Granger said. "And the enemy?"

"The Royal Army apparently conducted a nighttime march." The adjutant said. "Their positions are now fourteen kilometers closer than originally expected. However, orbital reconnaissance has indicated that their march has come to a stop this morning, presumably to allow the troops to rest and take food."

"I see…" General Granger said while stroking his chin. "Do you have a map of the area?"

The adjutant took his data-slate, made some changes, and handed it to the general. General Granger studied the map, tapping it a few times to make a note of the geography, and then handed it back to his adjutant. "Excellent," he said. "Once our crossing and resupply is complete, we'll march to engage the enemy."

"Should I inform the division commanders, sir?"

"Do so."

The adjutant saluted. "I'll do it immediately, sir." He said. General Granger returned the salute, and with a nod dismissed his adjutant. The man hurried off, while the general returned to the window to resume watching the troops cross below.

* * *

Hours later, and the Imperial and Royal Armies were preparing to face off against each other in the rolling plains and low hills of the Riverlands. The Royal Army numbered well over a hundred thousand men, drawn from the Crownlands, the Stormlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale.

In contrast, the Imperial Army – or rather the force which had crossed over the Twins and would attack the Royal Army head-on – numbered only approximately sixty thousand men. And had all things been otherwise equal, the Royal Army's victory would be all but guaranteed.

But the Royal Army was a pre-industrial force. They had no firearms, whether advanced energy weapons or even slug throwers, much less tanks and other vehicles. They had no artillery, even primitive ones like catapults or ballistae.

In contrast, the Imperial Army was a modern force, its soldiers equipped with NBC and vacuum-rated duraplast armor, resistant against energy weapons and virtually-immune against slug throwers. They had tanks, they had APCs, they had trucks, they had artillery, they had air and even orbital support.

Not that Robert knew it, of course. To be sure, even from a distance he could see the gleam of sunlight off what looked massive, horseless chariots, but that was all he thought them to be. Chariots produced and driven by sorcery and witchcraft, formidable to be sure but far from invincible, especially when faced with true bravery and heroism.

Yes, just like the Targaryens, these invaders would know only death at the end of his hammer, and the weapons of the men who followed him. He would have vengeance for Ned, and afterwards, against all the craven traitors who dared kneel before these invaders.

"Should we call for a parley, Your Grace?" Ser Arys Oakheart, newly-appointed Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, asked.

"No!" Robert said firmly. "No words. No parley. We will waste no further time with these invaders who come uninvited into our lands, slaying our people, and despoiling our homes. There is only the enemy before us, and we will face them in battle, and crush them without mercy. By the gods I swear today, justice is with us."

"…as you wish, Your Grace."

Robert drew his hammer, and rode up along the frontline. Crownland and Stormland infantry formed the center of the Royal Army, while to the left and right the Riverland infantry formed the wings. Vale infantry were held back in reserve, while knights from all the kingdoms present stayed back along the edges of the wings, prepared to ride in either to intercept enemy cavalry or to take advantage of any openings that would be opened in the middle of the battle, and thus rout the enemy.

"Ser Brynden," he ordered. "Move to flank the enemy and collapse their right wing as we advance."

"Yes, Your Grace." Ser Brynden Tully acknowledged before riding off to take command of the left wing.

"Lord Mallister," Robert continued. "The right wing will cover our flank, and stand fast while facing the enemy head-on. Let's give the Blackfish an anvil to break the enemy against."

"Yes, Your Grace!"

Robert rode to the end of the line, and then turning his horse, rode back the way he came, hammer held high. "Stand, soldiers of Westeros!" he roared. "The enemy stands before us! They will bloody our swords, and hammer at our shields. But we shall stand, we shall march forward, and we shall fear no enemy! For today, we defend our homes! For today, we march to victory! For today, we celebrate at the setting of the Sun!"

Cheers erupted from the army, swords and spears and other weapons raised shaking into the air. "Ours is the Fury!" Robert roared, and behind him, his army took up his house's words.

"OURS IS THE FURY! OURS IS THE FURY! OURS IS THE FURY!"

War horns rang deep and loud, and with the sound of countless feet striking the ground, the Royal Army of the Seven Kingdoms marched forward, into battle. Over a hundred thousand men, flying thousands of banners of different colors, sunlight shining bright and clear from weapons and armor of steel and iron.

Imperial artillery batteries opened fire, sending thunder rumbling across the battlefield. And then the entire frontline went up in plumes of fire and smoke, entire square kilometers of grassland and infantry simply ceasing to be. The Royal Army seemed to shake as one, and in the midst of his men, even Robert seemed to be taken aback.

"What sorcery is this?" he whispered.

And then the artillery fired again, and again, and again. Explosions crawled up the Royal Army, which broke and fled behind them. Then the Imperial armor began to advance, quickly rolling forward to maximum battle speed, battle cannons and coaxial heavy repeating blasters opening fire at will and simply slaughtering anything and everything they came across.

The Imperial artillery also continued to fire, this time targeting the rear as to cut off the Royal Army's retreat. _Supremacy_ fighters and _Extinction_ bombers screamed down, laser cannons blazing and proton bombs flashing as they flew in low over the Vale men waiting in reserve to the Royal Army's rear. Tens of thousands died in mere seconds as the combined bombing and strafing run turned their entire line into a sea of fire, the survivors breaking and running.

And even that would not be enough to save them, _Supremacy_ fighters moving to pursue, laser cannons blazing away as they strafed the Vale Lords again and again and again. Behind them the rest of the Royal Army died.

* * *

Smoke rose from the ruined battlefield, from patches of grass set ablaze by the fighting, to great pyres of dead Westerosi. Imperial soldiers tossed dead bodies onto the pyres, while other soldiers marched surrendered Westerosi soldiers away, to holding camps being prepared around the Twins.

In the middle of the battlefield, captured lords sullenly but fearfully stood against each other, counting amongst their number Robert and his Kingsguard. Imperial soldiers stood watch, weapons ready to be raised and fired on a moment's notice.

Other soldiers waited, forming an honor guard as the _Impetuous_ loomed ever closer, before a shuttle finally emerged and flew down to the ground, escorted by a pair of _Supremacy_ fighters. Alighting to the ground, the boarding ramp extended with the hiss of equalizing pressure, and moments later Darth Achaia emerged from the depths of his shuttle.

General Granger approached and bowed. "The Royal Army is defeated, and we have captured the king." He said.

"Well done, general." Darth Achaia said with a nod, walking forward at a brisk pace, the general keeping pace. "I assume the king is among…those?"

"That is correct, my lord." General Granger said with a nod. "The others are the lords we captured in the battle."

"They will be made to kneel soon enough." Darth Achaia said. "Mere lordlings they might be, but they will have their uses. Should they prove their value, then it is only to be expected they be rewarded in some way."

"Yes, of course my lord."

The Sith Lord and the Imperial Army general walked to where the noble prisoners were gathered. "To the one who styles himself, the King of the Seven Kingdoms," Darth Achaia began. "Come forward."

There was a moment of silence, save for the wind and the sound of men working nearby, and then Robert strode closer, his face one of frustrated wrath. "You dare summon a king?" he growled.

Lightning flashed and crackled and sent Robert flying. The Kingsguard yelled and rushed forward, Imperial soldiers making to raise their weapons…only to find the Force wrapped around them, keeping them from moving.

 _Your loyalty is commendable, but I will handle this._

The soldiers relaxed at their lord's thoughts slipping into their minds, and simply watched as lightning lashed out and bathed the Kingsguard in its brilliant intensity. Cloth burned and metal melted, the knights not even able to scream as they were reduced to burnt-out husks.

"Your army is defeated." Darth Achaia said, advancing on Robert, who stared in horror from where he was lying on the ground. "Your kingdoms lie prostate. Even your lords have abandoned you, swearing their loyalty to one more deserving of it. From Lady Reaper Asha of Pyke, to Lord Robb of Winterfell and Lord Tywin of Casterly Rock…and I foresee that Prince Doran of Sunspear and Lord Mace of Highgarden will kneel soon. Submit…kneel before me, and swear allegiance to His Majesty, the Immortal Emperor of the Sith Empire."

Again, there was silence, and then with a groan, Robert forced himself to his feet. For a while, he stood with head down, breathing heavily as he forced his body – aching from the effects of Force Lightning – under control, and then raising his head, met Darth Achaia's eyes.

There was hatred there, as well as humiliation, rage and defiance. And yet, for all that, Darth Achaia could sense Robert knew he was going to die here and now, and did not care. He would die as he lived, and not lower himself to live in humiliation and degradation.

The Sith Lord could respect that.

But if so, then Force Lightning would not do. With a thought, a telekinetic pull drew his saberstaff to his hand, and a push from a finger extended one blade.

"Any last words?" Darth Achaia asked.

"Ours is the Fury." Robert whispered, and then faster than the eye could follow Darth Achaia swung, a form-perfect _sai cha_ separating Robert's head from his body. It was an execution in full, and one that had the remaining lords falling to their knees even as Robert's body fell to the ground.

"Take his body." Darth Achaia ordered as he deactivated his saberstaff, and returned it to his waist. "He had his own strength, and died with honor. Have his body returned to his family, and buried according to their rites. He deserves that much."

"It will be done, my lord." General Granger said with a bow. "And the others?"

"Follow predetermined procedures."

"Yes, my lord."

* * *

A/N

So passes Robert the son of Steffon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Up next, King's Landing.

 _Sai cha_ – this is the terminology (at least in Legends) used by both the Jedi and the Sith for a decapitation. For a canon example, there's Mace Windu killing Jango Fett at the Battle of Geonosis.


	11. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Wars: The Old Republic_ , which is the property of BioWare and LucasArts. Neither do I own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , which is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Falling Shadows

Chapter 10

An air of gloom hung heavy over King's Landing. Word had reached the city of the destruction of the Royal Army in the Riverlands, and of the death of King Robert. Other news spoke of the invading army now marching south along the Kingsroad, and with it the feared name of the invaders, now known at last: Sith.

Rumors were rife as to their nature and appearance, ranging from the mundane, as that of migrating colonizers and conquerors from over the Sunset Sea as the Andals themselves had been over the Narrow Sea thousands of years ago, to the bizarre, for instance one where the Sith were said to be inhuman, demon-worshipping, flesh-eaters come out of unhallowed lands beyond the Sunset Sea. Other rumors spoke of dragons greater in size than even that of Aegon the Conqueror's Black Dread, of horseless chariots, and of sorcerers with the power to dominate the minds of hundreds of lesser men or to turn them into frogs with but a word and a gesture.

And there were whispers too, whispers of how King Robert's defeat and death in the Riverlands paralleled that of Crown Prince Rhaegar on the Trident a decade ago, and how such was long-awaited retribution for his treason and regicide. Rumblings of discontent had been born of those rumors, and in the absence of King Robert, much beloved despite his own vendetta against the Targaryens, hatred had stirred against those left behind.

Queen Cersei in particular became the focus of much resentment and hate among the smallfolk, both because of her proud and aloof character to say nothing of not even trying to hide her disdain for the smallfolk, and also because of the house of her birth. The Lannisters had never been popular among the smallfolk outside of the Westerlands, less so in King's Landing for the memory of the butchery inflicted on the city at their hands ten years ago, culminating with the rape and murder of the much-loved Rhaegar's wife and children.

The City Watch had cracked down hard on such discontent, but despite their best efforts, it continued to fester beneath the surface, manifesting most often in periodic riots at Flea Bottom. Elsewhere, isolated watchmen at night would disappear only to be found in the morning, hanging from trees or lying in pools of their own blood, stripped of everything of value.

This forced the City Watch to go about in pairs or larger groups, whether in daytime or in the night, and doubled guards on the walls of the Red Keep. And it was also in the Red Keep that what was left of the Small Council met with the Queen Regent. With King Robert dead, by law and custom his eldest son Joffrey was king, but only being five years of age, by those same laws and customs his mother ruled in his place as regent until the day of his coming of age.

It was a much reduced gathering. It had been months now since word had come by raven from Harrenhal, of the Hand of the King's death. Word from the Riverlands with regard to the Lord Commander's fate in the battle was contradicting, though even had he lived, as a result of his part service to House Targaryen he had not been part of the Small Council due to the late king's distrust.

The Master of Ships was also dead, killed in the cataclysm that had claimed the Royal Fleet in the Summer Sea less than a month ago. The Master of Laws had fallen ill from worry and had been confined to his quarters in the Red Keep, leaving the queen to hold council with the Master of Coin, the Master of Whisperers, and the Grand Maester.

Three out of a council of seven…it was a preposterous farce.

Even more preposterous was the letter that had arrived by raven from Casterly Rock, written in Tywin Lannister's hand, and bearing his personal seal. Both had been confirmed by the Grand Maester, and there was also the hidden message in the letter, written in a code known only to Tywin and his children, informing Cersei that yes, the letter was genuine and written in good faith, and that her father expected her to obey.

Now, if only the contents of the letter had not been so preposterous. First, Tywin had apparently cut a deal with the invaders, guaranteeing their house's position and status in exchange for fealty. That had been so unbelievable that Cersei had laughed when she'd first read it, and had even been tempted to simply burn the letter afterwards.

 _A lion did not bargain, it demanded._

And then there was Tywin's own admission that he'd be coming south with the invaders, and that he expected Cersei to open the gates of King's Landing to them, and surrender the city without resistance. Surrender the capital…and by extension, the Iron Throne – her _son_ 's throne – to the enemy.

No…it could not be true. There was simply no way her father would expect her to do such a thing. It had to be a forgery, whether the appearance of her father's hand or his seal, and that someone had obtained a cipher for their personal code, to include that hidden message.

Except…Tywin had in the last part of his message said that _exact same thing_ , dryly predicting his own daughter's thoughts and mockingly asking if she really thought so low of him. It was…a sobering, experience.

"Well," Littlefinger began with a nervous smile. "It's not like we have much of a choice. The Royal Army is gone. The Royal Fleet is gone. What have we left to defend the city should we choose to fight? Janos Slynt has some seven thousand cutthroats, along with maybe a thousand more men-at-arms from the various noble households in the city, including His Grace's own."

"We could press some of the citizenry into service if it comes to that," Varys remarked. "Though given the volatile situation in the city it strikes me as rather imprudent."

"I-if need be, we could summon the Reach's armies to d-defend the c-city…" Pycelle mumbled, but Cersei cut him off with a snort.

"The Tyrells?" she asked with a sneer, lifting a brimming goblet of Arbor Gold to her lips for a bracing drink. "I wouldn't trust those fat opportunists not to stab us in the back given the chance, much like they stabbed the dragons in the back ten years ago."

"By that," Varys delicately began. "I assume you refer to Lord Tyrell's siege of Storm's End, do you not, My Queen?"

"What else could I be referring to?" Cersei spat. "They might say they keep their armies on their lands to protect themselves from invasion, despite it being clear the invasion was far to the north, away from their lands. A convenient and thinly and poorly-disguised excuse to sit atop the fence and watch where the wind is blowing, much like what happened during the rebellion. No, I will not call on the Reach for aid. Even if they arrive on time, I wouldn't be surprised if they sacked the city themselves and presented my head and those of my children to the invaders when they come."

Varys and Pycelle looked extremely uncomfortable at the comparison with Crown Princess Elia and her children. Littlefinger though, just looked amused.

"Calling on the Martells would be an even worse idea, in that light." Varys finally said. "But, Lord Baelish is correct, My Queen. As much as it pains me to say so, we cannot resist. Not truly: please remember that the Royal Army numbered over a hundred thousand. An army of the size required to defeat it…even if we could round out our defenders to ten thousand, we would stand no chance in open battle, whether outside or inside the city."

"And even if the enemy doesn't give battle," Littlefinger added. "Without a fleet we are vulnerable to blockade and being starved out."

"…my father will come to save us." Cersei growled out. "This…forgery, proves nothing. I'm sure even as we speak, forty thousand men are marching down the Gold Road to our aid."

"Alas My Queen," Varys apologetically said. "According to my little birds, the army of the west appears to be remaining in their own lands, and indeed, their banners are dispersing…"

"Then your little birds are wrong!" Cersei shouted, and threw her goblet against a nearby wall as the Master of Whisperers fell silent. "Or worse, compromised! Traitors! Potentially like yourself, by association!"

The council stayed silent as Cersei rose, her chest heaving. "My father would never abandon me like so." she growled. "My father would never throw away our pride. My father would never surrender my children's throne. Least of all to savage and uncouth invaders!"

"…then what do you intend for us, My Queen?" Littlefinger asked.

Cersei drew herself up. "We fight." She said coldly. "Every man and boy able to wield arms will fight to defend this city, their queen, and their king. Any who even so much as breathes the idea of bargaining with the enemy much less surrendering to them, is to be hanged forthwith as craven traitors to the crown. Let it be known! Now, get out!"

Bowing as they rose, the Small Council hurriedly left, and Cersei sank back into her chair. Letting her face fall into her hands for a few moments, she took another goblet and filled it to the brim with more Arbor Gold, before lifting it to her lips. She'd scarcely taken a sip when another voice spoke up.

"They're right, you know." Jaime said as he walked into the chamber, and closing the door behind him. "We can't fight. Not against the numbers the enemy will throw at us, when they had the numbers to beat Robert and his army."

"Then what do you suggest we do?" Cersei spat, and slamming her goblet down on the table. "I will not call on the Martells and Tyrells only to have my and my children's necks slit, I will not!"

"We could make a run for it." Jaime said, walking over to the window. "Either to Essos, or sailing south make the long journey around to Casterly Rock."

"And surrender my son's throne?' Cersei spat. "Never!"

"So long as he's alive, he'll be king." Jaime said. "He doesn't need the Iron Throne itself to be one. He'll be alive, and with time, may gather the strength to reclaim it."

"He doesn't need to lose it in the first place!"

"No…but life's not fair, is it?"

Cersei rose from her chair, and approaching her brother, gave him a burning glare. "I will neither run nor surrender." She whispered. "That is my final word. Now go, ser knight."

"…as you wish, My Queen."

* * *

The atmosphere in the city grew increasingly bleak as the days passed. As per Cersei's orders, every man and boy able to wield arms was pressed into the City Watch…

…or at least, Lord Commander Slynt tried. The result was days of rioting that saw entire districts reduced to ash, and thousands of people dead. At the end of it, King's Landing was split in two, between those loyal to the Queen Regent, and those who sought to surrender when the invaders came. And in the former case, there were also rumblings of discontent.

In the Red Keep, Cersei all but shut herself away in Maegor's Holdfast, sending commands and receiving reports through intermediaries. Various servants mostly, and many times her brother, who looked increasingly-haggard from the task of managing his sister (and his own increasingly-frequent nightmares). The Grand Maester had prescribed him medication to help him sleep, though it didn't seem to help much, if at all.

As the invaders drew ever closer to the city, more word came, from outlying towns and villages. They spoke of a vast army, men in armor accompanied by horseless chariots of various kinds, and dragons in several scales. Unrest simmered and bubbled, men were hung for desertion, sedition, and various other crimes, until finally, the invaders arrived.

Lord Commander Slynt and Ser Jaime Lannister had taken up joint command of the defenses, and they stared out from the walls of the city at the gigantic, spearhead-like bulk of the invaders' so-called dragons looming overhead, and bearing down on the city. Beneath them marched the invaders' army, and both Slynt and Jaime looked at each other.

"Dragons, they say." Slynt said.

"I somehow doubt that." Jaime said. "More importantly, how do we fight something like that?"

"Can we even fight something like that?"

"…I'd better get to the Red Keep."

"Ser Jaime…!"

"I know, I know!" Jaime said while running a hand through his hair, and then looked out to the approaching invaders. As they watched, several small… _things_ , flew past and over the city, the wind howling in their wake. "Leave my sister to me. Open the gates, and let them in."

"…surrender?" Slynt breathed.

"Do you really think we can fight something like those?" Jaime asked, pointing at the approaching invaders. "No, I didn't think you did. We might as well try and keep these invaders from getting too hostile. Don't worry, I'll take full responsibility."

"I…very well, Ser Jaime. And good luck."

"Likewise, Lord Commander."

* * *

Panic erupted across the city as three _Harrower_ Class Dreadnoughts flew low over the city and weighted anchor overhead. Troops were airdropped by shuttle and secured the city's main thoroughfares, while others seized the walls and gates. Some small skirmishes broke out, but by and large the City Watch obeyed their lord commander's order to surrender.

It wasn't long before Imperial troops were marching into the city, duraplast armor polished to a bright shine, marching high and in step with rifles held against their shoulders, tanks, APCs, and SP guns rolling between infantry battalions. Vertically-inclined banners were brandished proudly by each battalion, red as blood and emblazoned with the white and black hexagon and six-pointed star of the Sith Empire.

More banners were flown from the walls and battlements, taking the places of the gold and black banners of House Baratheon. And to the shock of many who watched, riding in honor amongst the invaders were the knights of House Lannister, and in their center rode Tywin Lannister himself.

It wasn't long before Tywin was entering the Red Keep, and dismounting looked around as Imperial soldiers spread across the courtyards and began to sweep for any sign of resistance. "Lord Lannister," Darth Achaia said as he walked over, having ridden in among the Lannister knights himself. "I sense your children are having something of an argument. I suggest you'd best get to Maegor's Holdfast."

Tywin growled. "Cersei…" he said softly with a mix of exasperation and frustration. With a nod at the Sith Lord, he stormed off accompanied by his brother and several knights. Behind him, Darth Achaia smirked before looking around him with an air of bemused approval.

"Do you sense it, Lysus?" he asked.

"Yes, I do." The Sith Warrior approvingly said before taking a deep breath. "This place…this castle, it is strong in the Dark Side of the Force."

"…strong the Targaryens were, it seems." Darth Achaia said with a nod. "How the mighty have fallen."

* * *

Tywin strode down the corridors of the Red Keep, his steps powerful and purposeful, his face set with such intensity that neither Baratheon Household Guards, Imperial soldiers, and much less the help, dared get in his way. To his left and a step behind strolled Ser Kevan Lannister, his own face one of composed concern, and behind them walked several Lannister knights.

They emerged onto the drawbridge that crossed the dry moat surrounding Maegor's Holdfast, and entering heard echoes of shouted threats and insults. "That sounds like Cersei." Kevan said.

"It is."

Walking towards the source of the noise, they finally found Cersei being restrained by several guards, while an ashen-faced Jaime stood opposite her. Behind him, Tywin's three grandchildren cowered in fear, though at the sight of their grandfather, Tommen and Myrcella quickly ran over.

Tywin's expression never softened, but he did allow himself to kneel down and catch his grandchildren, returning their embrace before rising to his feet. Even afterwards, he let them clutch his legs for support, while he comfortingly placed his hands on their heads, very much like an old lion protecting his cubs.

"What happened?" he growled.

"Father…" Cersei breathed, all fire and fury gone. At his appearance and the sound of his voice, she had sagged as though all strength had left her, staring at him in disbelief and betrayal. If not for the guards holding her, she might very well have fallen to the floor.

"When she received word that the city had surrendered," Jaime explained. "She attempted to poison her children. I arrived just in time to stop her."

"You did what?" Tywin exploded, staring in shock and disbelief at his daughter.

"What else was I supposed to do?" Cersei shouted, her spirit returning. "You…you…you betrayed us all! Betrayed me! Surrendered our pride…my children's throne…what did those foreigners promise you, father? What did they do to you?"

"IDIOT GIRL!" Tywin roared before restraining himself lest he traumatize his grandchildren. "Kevan…Jaime…take the children somewhere safe. Do it now."

Murmuring softly and comfortingly, Kevan and Jaime gathered Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen before leading them away. Once they were gone, Tywin strode over to the window, and pointed at a _Harrower_ hovering overhead.

"Do you see that, Cersei?" he asked silkily. "Tell me Cersei, do you see? Answer me!"

"…I see it." Cersei sullenly said.

"How do you propose to fight something like that?" Tywin asked. "If you're so much smarter than I, tell me, how do you propose to fight something like that? Well?"

Cersei was silent. "That's what I thought." Tywin said. "There is such a thing as picking one's battles. Even without knowing what I now know of those ships, it's clear that fighting would only lead to our destruction and that of everything we cherish."

"A lion does not bow." Cersei whispered. "A lion stands…"

"Those are just words!" Tywin shouted. "Without action to back them, they are nothing! And the only action here that can benefit our house is to compromise, and at the least preserve what we already have! Indeed, we will have more…though your actions may just have damaged our chances to have this entire world, and possibly others beyond."

Cersei said nothing, and with a gesture from Tywin the guards took her away. Once they were gone, Tywin took a deep breath before heading to the window once more, and stared out to the dreadnoughts above.

 _Such power and might…perhaps one day it will be ours…but not if my children stay as they are…_

 _At least Jaime finally shows promise…hmm…yes, there's an idea._

* * *

"What have you done, father?"

Tywin eyed his eldest son in a measuring way, and after confirming for himself that Jaime was able to use his head properly (unlike his sister), Tywin stepped closer and clapped him on a shoulder. "What I had to do." He said. "How are the children?"

"Shaken," Jaime said. "But they will recover. They ask for their mother, however."

"…they will have to be answered soon." Tywin said after a moment. "But after what she's done, I don't want them to be left unattended with her at any time."

"I understand, father." Jaime said. "I'll have it done. But…father, what really did you do?"

Tywin did not answer at once. He walked over to the windows, and stared out for a few moments. Then he began to explain. He explained what he had learned over the past weeks, of the Sith Empire, the Force, the galaxy at large, and much more. It was fantastic and unbelievable, but a single glance outside and at the dreadnoughts overhead, and Jaime could only believe.

"I'll admit there is still much I do not know or understand." Tywin admitted. "But there is no shame in admitting that, not when civilization spans the night sky. It cannot be denied: there is still much to learn, and I must admit that before I can move forward."

"So…now what?" Jaime said. "We submit to…the Sith?"

Tywin again paused to look at his son for a long moment, and then he looked back out once more. "If we resist, we die, and with our deaths come the end of the Lannister lineage and legacy." He said. "But if we submit, we live, and in time grow stronger."

"…so the same choice as made by King Loren, is it?"

"Yes," Tywin said with a nod. "And it's a good lesson to learn. Prior to his submission to the Targaryens, the Kingdom of the Rock was but one of many constantly contending with each other. Our power was secure only within the Westerlands, our influence outside constantly in flux given the unstable fabric of the political landscape. And even in the Westerlands, our power was challenged by the Ironborn."

"But…?"

Tywin nodded. "When King Loren knelt before Aegon the Conqueror," he said. "He lost his crown. We lost our independence. But any and all challenge to our power in the Westerlands was removed by the feudal organization imposed by the Conqueror, and with peace – for the most part – falling across the continent, our influence as the wealthiest of the Seven Kingdoms was also secured. And in time, we succeeded in something that the old Kingdom of the Rock would never have succeeded in gaining: dominion over the whole continent."

"…Joffrey is a Baratheon of Storm's End." Jaime pointed out.

"But he is of our blood, regardless." Tywin insisted. "And he sits the Iron Throne. Sometimes, submission, defeat, and loss, are what are needed to push forward and onto greater heights."

"…so, what now?" Jaime asked.

"Joffrey will remain King of the Seven Kingdoms." Tywin said. "As for myself, I have already been named a candidate for governor of this whole world under the Sith Emperor. Should I succeed in my aspirations, such a position will belong to our family…to you, even, once I die."

"Father…?"

Tywin did not answer, instead pulling what looked like disk of metal from a pocket. Pressing on the edge, blue light flickered up to form the image of a globe, on which could be seen Westeros, Essos, and other lands besides.

"Is that…?" Jaime breathed.

"Yes," Tywin said with a nod. "Our world… _our_ world…and perhaps in time, one of many in our name."

"Father, I…"

"Once your sister has regained her senses," Tywin interrupted. "She will name me Hand of the King in her capacity as Queen Regent. She will also free you from your obligations and your position in the Kingsguard, thus allowing you to take your rightful place at my side. You will begin to be taught what you need to learn as my heir, and with me shall oversee the restructuring of not just Westeros, but the rest of the world, into a new order that will set the stage for our family to take its rightful place in the stars."

Jaime said nothing, and as Tywin took away the globe of their world, looked away with a troubled expression on his face.

* * *

"All that's left now are the south, and then we can turn to the eastern continent." Lysus observed, as she and her master walked along the Red Keep's curtain wall, looking out over the city.

"I foresee the eastern continent will be much easier to secure than this western continent." Darth Achaia said. "Or at least its western half will be. The so-called Free Cities will not be as inclined to resist as these Westerosi have, given their natural inclinations as small city-states instead of large, country-spanning kingdoms."

"As you say, my lord." Lysus said. "But the eastern half will be…difficult."

"Not any more difficult than this continent…though I am particularly eager to look into that region once known as Valyria."

"I sense it too, master." Lysus said with a nod. "That place is strong in the Dark Side of the Force. Almost like…a wound, yes, that's it. It's a Wound in the Force."

"Unsurprising, given what we've been told of the place." Darth Achaia said. "Though, even with the cataclysm that tore it apart and resulted in a wound being opened, there should be plenty left to recover and study."

"…do you think they are lost Sith?" Lysus asked. "Like those which Lord Sadow took with him in exile to Yavin IV?"

"Perhaps…but unlikely." Darth Achaia replied. "We are not the only ones to harness the Dark Side of the Force, though we are certainly the greatest. And even then, others may have tapped into secrets we ourselves have yet to discover, or present alternative but equally-worthy perspectives on what we already know. And perhaps, we might find clues there, as to how this world's Force Nexus ceased to be."

"Yes…there's a worrying thought. What could possible cause a Force Nexus to cease to be?"

"What indeed."

Silence fell between master and apprentice, as they stared out over King's Landing. The Sith were restoring order with brutal efficiency in rebellious parts of the city, not just the Imperial Army, but Lysus' fellow warriors. The thought brought a vision of elsewhere through the Force, of Sith Warriors carving their way down a street with their lightsabers, corpses with cauterized cuts falling one after another to the ground.

"In the meantime, however," Darth Achaia said, turning to the castle behind him and narrowing his eyes. "This place has its own mysteries and secrets, and of which I would learn."

Lysus bowed before abruptly sensing a…ethereal, but dark presence. She turned to the castle in alarm, and narrowed her eyes as it vanished.

Yes, the Red Keep certainly had its mysteries and secrets. And it would not do for Sith not to explore them.

* * *

A/N

And so we come to King's Landing, where Cersei is melting down and Jaime is surprisingly using his head.

It shouldn't come as a surprise though that the Red Keep is strong in the Dark Side, or that Valyria is a Wound in the Force. Now I suppose you'll say, what about Harrenhal? Hundreds died there too, why is it not a Wound in the Force?

Hundreds die at once in agony and pain on battlefields across the galaxy, and they don't open Wounds in the Force. In Valyria though…within minutes of a supervolcanic eruption, at least tens of millions died in a virtual instant. I daresay that qualifies as a requirement for the opening of a localized Wound in the Force.

What about other, older castles? Why aren't they strong in the Dark Side? Some are, but the Sith haven't visited them yet, and most don't have as bloody a history as the Red Keep, and in so short a time too.


	12. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Wars: The Old Republic_ , which is the property of BioWare and LucasArts. Neither do I own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , which is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

 **Falling Shadows**

 **Chapter 11**

Days had passed since the city of King's Landing had fallen to the Sith. In that time, a sullen order had restored itself to the city, enforced primarily by the City Watch, who – considering their actions over the past week – found themselves pleasantly surprised by the haste and willingness the citizens were willing to cooperate with them.

In hindsight though, they probably shouldn't have been surprised. When the Sith had arrived, a number of districts had refused to surrender, and had erupted into rioting, with others following like dominos in their wake. The Sith had taken it upon themselves to restore order, and did so with brutal efficiency.

The soldiers of the Imperial Army had had no qualms making use of Agent A to break up crowds, or to line up dissidents and rioters against walls to be publicly executed by firing squad. But that was _nothing_ compared to the Sith themselves. Twelve Sith Warriors had gone into a district home to _hundreds_ all by themselves, armed with nothing with their lightsabers.

That was bad enough, as no weapon the rioters and dissidents could have held up against a lightsaber. But there was the Force too, and in addition to piles of corpses cut to cauterized pieces there were others killed by being hurled through the air, through walls, or had been choked or simply had their necks broken by unseen tendrils and fingers of arcane power. And there were those reduced to smoking husks, as the Sith had fed on the fear and fury of the mobs and threw it back in the form of lightning.

By the time those twelve warriors emerged, the streets were covered in corpses, and the survivors huddled in their homes, frantically praying to their gods as the Sith moved on. They moved on…to another district, and then to another, and then another, until order had been fully restored.

As a result, the citizens were unwilling to give them _any_ excuse to come back.

This had set tongues wagging, even more so when word had filtered to Tywin Lannister himself. Supposedly, the Lord of Casterly Rock had merely raised an eyebrow before gruffly telling his brother to inform the Lord Commander of the City Watch that higher standards would be in place going forward.

In any case, with order restored, things were finally moving forward. Queen Regent Cersei Lannister had sworn loyalty to the Sith Emperor on her son's behalf, and had then appointed her father as Hand of the King. Tywin had accepted, and even as he began reviewing candidates to fill the members of the Small Council, had word sent by raven to those parts of Westeros yet to submit to the Sith, of the new order that things now stood in.

And there was also the matter of the late King Robert's funeral. His body had been handed over to the Silent Sisters after his execution by Darth Achaia in the Riverlands, and was all set to be buried in the crypts beneath the Great Sept.

Tywin had allowed word to get out of how Robert's last moments had gone, and of how the conqueror had graciously allowed his body to be given its due rites. By all accounts, it had done well to – grudgingly – inspire respect, reinforcing the fear the Sith were now held in.

"Either love or fear is equally acceptable a perception to be held in by one's conquests and subjects." Darth Achaia said to his apprentice. They stood atop one of the Red Keep's forts, looking over Blackwater Bay. "Indeed, having neither is also just as acceptable. But there is one thing that is absolutely indispensable."

"Respect." Lysus said.

"Correct," Darth Achaia said with a nod. "No matter what, one's conquests and subjects must respect you. Whether they love you, fear you, or just don't particularly feel about you, they _must_ respect you. So long as you have that, you rest assured they will follow your commands, serve you loyally, and fulfill your expectations of them to the best of their ability."

"But if respect turns to hate," Lysus said. "Then things become problematic."

"Indeed," Darth Achaia said with another nod. "And that is why there can never be true peace between us and the Jedi, much less between the Empire and the Republic."

Lysus' eyes glowed. "There is no forgiving the crimes they've committed against our people." She said, her tone dark and brooding, and any who could sense the Force nearby could feel the palpable _hate_ that filled it, and drawing forth a rising crescendo from the Dark Side of the Force.

"Calm yourself, Lysus." Darth Achaia coolly said. "Not that I disagree of course, but in an academic discourse, there is no need for you to get so passionate."

With some effort, Lysus brought herself under control. "Apologies, my master." She said with a bow. "I still have much to learn."

"Indeed you do…though as I said, it's not that I disagree."

Lysus bowed. "The late king's funeral will be held in a few days." Darth Achaia said. "I want you to go as my personal envoy. Choose two companions from among the warriors present, and proceed with all due decorum."

"It will be done, my lord." Lysus said with a bow, quickly grasping how such a stratagem would serve to further sow respect beneath the fear the Sith were already held in.

* * *

All but two of the Lords Paramounts were present for the funeral. As might be expected, there was a service held before the actual interment, held within the Great Sept, and officiated by the High Septon himself, and assisted by the Most Devout. The Lords Paramount were all seated with their consorts (where it was applicable) in front of the congregation, along with three Sith Warriors.

Tywin had ridden in with the Sith, while Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun had already been in the city on their arrival. In the days since, with word of King Robert's death being sent ahead following his defeat and execution, the others had arrived by land and sea.

There was Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell, Lady Reaper Asha Greyjoy of Pyke, Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden, and even Lord Renly Baratheon of Storm's End. Those not present included Lord Robert Arryn of the Eyrie, and Prince Doran Martell of Sunspear.

In the former case, it was understandable considering he was only a babe of one, and his mother was (also) understandably unwilling to leave him all by himself at such an age. The same could be said albeit for historical reasons with regard to the Prince of Dorne. What was _not_ understandable was Lady Lysa Arryn's proclamation of her son as King of the Mountain and Vale, and declaring themselves independent of the Seven Kingdoms.

" _It's true then?_ " Asphodel telepathically asked her friend. " _Lord Achaia's gone to deal with that impudent woman?_ "

" _It is._ " Lysus confirmed in kind. " _Though I wouldn't say impudent as much as I would say insane. Because from what we've been told, she was never really what you'd call a paragon of rationality in the years she's spent here at King's Landing. Quite the opposite, in fact._ "

" _You have to admit though,_ " Joanna added, also telepathically. " _That woman did have a good sense of self-preservation. Once she'd heard her husband had died, she took her child and ran to hide under a mountain…or was it on top?_ "

" _On top,_ " Lysus corrected. " _And I'd agree if not for her actions after she heard this city fell. She might as well have challenged us._ "

" _…insane._ " Joanna laconically though, and both Asphodel and Lysus pulsed with agreement.

It was rather rude, to be fair, communication like so in what was supposed to be a solemn occasion. But while the three Sith Warriors had learned enough of the fallen king to have a measure of genuine respect for him, that did not extend to his gods, or the fat and pompous figure spouting platitudes at the pulpit. Proper appearances they would present, but no more.

Not that the former meant they did not draw attention. They did. As a warrior and of an established lineage at that, Lysus wore not the armor of modern day Sith Warriors, made from durasteel, phrik, and cortosis, but one that her ancestors would have worn on the battlefields of ancient times, and indeed, did not look out of place on this world.

She wore a sleeveless, knee-length tunic of coarse cloth, undyed and clearly suitable for heavy duty in harsh climes, as well as trousers, both belted at the waist. Over the tunic she wore a cuirass of darkly-lacquered steel, trimmed in gold, and bearing her house's emblem in copper and gold in the center. Gold-trimmed greaves and arm guards added further protection, along with a pointed cap of the same craftsmanship protected her head, featuring a nasal guard and a protective sheath of mail that extended beneath to cover the neck and sides of the head. And around the temple flowed a crown of copper, beaten into the image of roaring flames, all traditional, ceremonial attire for a warrior of the Sith people.

And while she lacked the Sith Sword to complete the image, none could mistake the cylindrical form of a lightsaber clipped at her waist.

In contrast, Joanna and Asphodel wore simpler attire, if only due to not being born of established lineages themselves. While not slave caste, they had been lower caste, at least until they had endured and overcome the trials of Korriban. Thenceforth, they were Sith Warriors, and that was enough.

Both wore long-sleeved dresses of black, tied at the waist with sashes of red, bearing elaborate, flowing, embroidered script in the Ziostian tongue. And while no lightsabers could be seen at their waists, well, a Sith is _never_ unarmed.

And that was without taking in their facial features, or in Lysus' case, the fact that she clearly wasn't Human. Her red skin was a dead giveaway, to say nothing of her bone spurs. While not as prominent compared to other Sith Purebloods, they were there, two running along her jawline and then jutting out towards the neck, and two more where a Human would have eyebrows, jutting outwards over her eyes.

Joanna and Asphodel were both Human, but they too caught attention in other ways. In Joanna's case, the blonde warrior's defining features were six tattoos on her face, three on each cheek, tapering lines of red that started at her jawline and narrowing towards her eyes. As for Asphodel, the dark-haired woman had tattooed Korribanite script above and below her right eye, and on each hand there were more tattoos, of a black sun.

All in all, the three Sith Warriors cast an air of ferocious and exotic splendor about them, drawing eyes and setting off murmurs at their arrival. Only the beginning of the ceremony had caused them to die down, and even then for the early part of the ceremony, all three of them could feel eyes on them, some disapproving, others appraising.

They didn't really care, though Lysus at one point had had to telepathically restrain Asphodel from strangling one of the Most Devout after the crone in question had looked at her critically for a bit too long. Asphodel had sworn to kill said crone after the ceremony, and that Lysus had no problem with (so long as Asphodel kept it subtle, of course).

" _What of the Dornish?_ " Joanna asked.

" _Yes,_ " Asphodel agreed. " _Has Lord Achaia come to a…decision, with regard to them?_ "

" _He has._ " Lysus admitted. " _Lord Axcis is handling that matter, and indeed, has already departed._ "

" _Oh?_ "

" _It seems that Lord Lannister is unwilling to see his future prospects be tarnished much less destroyed by a civil war._ " Lysus admitted with relish. " _So much so that he actually surprised my master by offering to sacrifice two pawns and in so doing, obtain something greater._ "

" _The situation in the northeast has already tarnished his position._ " Asphodel retorted.

" _Perhaps,_ " Lysus conceded. " _But that is not truly his fault, given the challenger being an insane loon, and thus meant only to be disposed of._ "

" _This is true._ " Asphodel said.

" _Agreed,_ " Joanna said. " _That said, who are those pawns to be sacrificed?_ "

* * *

Martell Household Guards rushed into position, brandishing spears and pointing them at the flying machine that had arrived and landed without permission in Sunspear's courtyard. Not that it would do much good, if the rumors brought by ships over the past weeks were to be believed, but they could hardly do nothing either.

And so they waited, as the shuttle sat there, before with the hissing of air a ramp extended from beneath the flying machine. Moments later and a man was striding down, wearing plate armor of some kind underneath a…cloak (?), that appeared to be mail of some sort. A polished cylinder was clipped to his armor's belt, among other satchels there.

"Greetings," the man said as he approached, stopping at a respectful distance. He spoke the Common Tongue with a strange accent, and he did not bow, but more than that, there was…something, to him that had all the guards present uneasy. It was more than just the man's golden eyes, as though…

…yes, it was like staring across practice grounds from Prince Oberyn in one of his moods, but three times as worse, as while the prince _did_ get savage when practicing in a bad mood, he wouldn't actually kill. This man though…

…if pushed…

"I am Lord Axcis Crakell of the Sith Empire." He introduced himself. "I am here at the behest of Darth Achaia, to discuss Dorne's future with regard to the Sith Empire."

The guards looked uneasily at each other, and then Prince Oberyn Martell was pushing through. The prince was in his armor, and he carried his poisoned spear easily over a shoulder. He looked relaxed, but every guard present knew that even relaxed, the prince could strike to kill on a moment's notice.

The epithet of 'Red Viper' was well-earned.

The prince and the lord stared at each other, silent and still, almost like two predators sizing each other up, weighing and measuring the risks and consequences of potential actions, and taking in the other's potential strengths and weaknesses. Their eyes never left the other's, and then after what seemed like hours but what was in reality barely a couple of minutes, they subtly nodded at each other in acknowledgement, so subtle none but the two of them could have noticed.

"Nice air you've got there." Oberyn said lightly. "Been a while since I've encountered someone like you."

"Really?" Axcis asked.

"Well," Oberyn said with a grin. "Not _really_ like you…never heard of the Sith before…but that air you've got…you remind me of…what was his name…oh yeah…Ser Arthur Dayne…the Sword of the Morning. They said his enemy could blink and Arthur would have cut their head off in that time, hell he could do it while pissing himself and using that sword of his with one hand."

Axcis chuckled. "I am uncertain whether to be flattered or not." He said. "That said, I have to say, you have a very interesting air about yourself too."

"Guess I do." Oberyn shrugged. "I'm Oberyn Martell, by the way. _Prince_ Oberyn Martell…and from what I hear, you want to talk, don't you?"

"…I suppose I do."

"I also hear you killed that fat oaf who sat on the Iron Throne." Oberyn asked with narrowed eyes.

"It was Lord Achaia who executed him in the end, not I." Axcis clarified.

"…I'll have to thank him then, should we ever meet." Oberyn said with a nod. And then he narrowed his eyes again. "That fat bastard went to war because of the injustice the Mad King heaped on his friend's family, but when an innocent woman was raped and murdered along with her children, all he did was feast over their corpses."

Axcis stayed silent. Personally, he could not deny the political necessity of the deaths of Princess Elia and her children, but the sheer cruelty of the acts…it was pointless. As a Sith he had no hesitation bringing death where it was called for, but cruelty for its own sake?

No, that stank of dime-for-a-dozen Dark Jedi. Death, cruelty, malice: to a Sith, they were mere tools, and never something to be sought for their own sake. It was for that reason that while the Triumvirate born of the dregs of Revan's blasphemous empire was respected for its members' power, they were still also held in low regard by the Sith Empire, consumed as they had been by the vices which had led them to the Dark Side in the first place.

"And now he's gone to explain to whatever waits on the other side to explain his hypocrisy." Oberyn continued while pacing. "That said…while I owe you thanks for that, from what I hear you've cut a deal with that old snake, Tywin Lannister. Indeed, his grandson still sits the throne, and he is now the Hand. That old snake…the man who gave the order for my sister and her children to die…"

"So they are." Axcis said.

Oberyn hefted his spear, and pointed it at Axcis. "Tell me," he said. "Give me one reason why we should talk."

Axcis could easily respond that it was the Martells' only real way to survive. That resistance of any sort would only lead to their destruction. But he didn't.

He knew even if he said that, the Martells – or rather this man in front of him – would stop caring and just go out with a blaze of glory. It was…admirable, in its own way. It spoke of a certain pride, that there were lines with regard to themselves they would not cross, lest they devalue themselves in their own eyes.

And Axcis knew that made them very useful. For without pride in one's self, or simply put, _self-respect_ , these people would value truly nothing. It wouldn't matter what rewards they were given, how well they were treated, or how terribly they were punished, they would never show loyalty of any kind, and would simply sell themselves out to whoever came along with a better offer than the last.

"I bring gifts, that is why." Axcis said, and pressed a button on his wrist. Then he stepped aside, as the sound of struggling could be heard from inside the shuttle. Oberyn looked curious, and then his eyes widened, and his face twisted with savage glee.

Gasps went up from the Martell guards, mixed with the sound of pleading and angry struggling, as both Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane were dragged in chains by Imperial soldiers from the shuttle. And Oberyn laughed, a loud and powerful laugh, the Force shuddering with malevolence and flickering with visions of terrible futures.

Gregor roared as electro-staffs on low settings stuck him again and again, knocking him down on the ground. Lorch, terrified out of his wits at the realization of where he was and to who he about to be handed over to, tried to plead for mercy from his guards. A strike from an electro-staff had his plea turning to an agonized scream.

"Oh," Oberyn said, his face still split with a grin. "You call these gifts? There is no word I could use to describe their value. I could give you their weight in gold, and I still would think myself in debt to you."

Laughing again, the Red Viper flourished his spear and nodded. "I owe you a drink at least." He said. "And after that, let's go see my brother."

Axcis nodded, and with a gesture, had his men backing away to allow the Martell guards to take the prisoners away. "I DEMAND A TRIAL BY COMBAT!" Gregor roared as the guards took his chains and dragged him away.

"Be silent, beast." Axcis said dismissively. "Trial by combat is reserved for those whose guilt is in question. You on the other hand, have had your guilt established for years."

"Well said!" Oberyn said, and clapping the surprised Sith Lord on the back. "And not only have we known it for years, we've been preparing to correct it for a decade now. Gregor Clegane, you shall be treated as a beast deserves. And you Amory Lorch, there is much for you learn. Yes, a thousand and one ways to scream."

Then Oberyn smiled, and the Force echoed with agonized screams-to-be.

* * *

"I see." Joanna said, her finger tracing patterns on the table she was sitting at next to her friends, and enjoying hot spiced wine with. "So that's how it is."

"Indeed," Lysus said with a nod. The Sith Pureblood had taken off her ceremonial wear, and now wore only a pair of shorts and a sports bra, showing off her lithe and toned figure. Her fellow warriors still wore their dresses, though admittedly those were still more comfortable than armor. "Two pawns for a province…not a bad trade, is it?"

"It isn't." Joanna agreed.

"I'm curious though how Lord Lannister reasoned the loss of his pawns." Asphodel remarked. "They were in their own way, valuable, given they committed such…horrid, acts without question."

"Their loyalty was beyond question." Lysus admitted. "But their value…not so much. Amory Lorch from what I hear was a cutthroat. A good one, yes, and loyal at that, but a cutthroat still for all that. Kill him, and you can just find ten more to replace him with."

"And Clegane?"

"A near-mindless brute, from what I know." Lysus said with contempt. "A lordling, yes, but he has a younger brother who is just as loyal, as efficient, and with a bigger brain than him. And in this day and age, a lordling with a brain would be more useful to Lord Lannister."

"…hmmm…I sense that is exactly what he said."

"It was." Lysus said with a nod. "Not word for word, true. But that is how he characterized it."

"And it's not a bad assessment and decision to make." Joanna said with a nod of her own. "He gets to placate a near-rebellious province, distract the local princelings with torturous revenge while he consolidates and expands his power base, and gets rid of troublesome pieces while promoting more useful ones."

Asphodel nodded in agreement, as did Lysus. "Shame he's not a Force sensitive though," Joanna mused. "I mean, he is a bit old, but if he was…that son of his would probably be too, and he's quite the looker."

Asphodel groaned, and Lysus chuckled. "This again, Joanna?" she asked.

"I have ambitions too, you know." Joanna said snappily. "And just because I have to marry a Force sensitive as well, it doesn't mean I have to settle for someone that looks like a bantha's ass."

"Fair enough…there is such a thing as standards."

"Exactly!"

Joanna and Lysus then turned to Asphodel, who was looking at the castle around them. "What is it?" Lysus asked.

"I sensed something."

Lysus and Joanna looked at each other, and then reached out their senses. A moment later, and all three of them were rising, and lightsabers were being drawn. "We sense it too." Lysus said with narrowed eyes. "What is this?"

The warriors looked at each other, and then hurried off. As they left the small atrium they had been lounging in and entered the castle, they felt the Dark Side churning, and the temperature dropping, as though they had entered a tomb. Lightsabers ignited with a snap-hiss, and the warriors hurried forward.

Along the way, they encountered several guards both Baratheon and Lannister. Their eyes widened at the sight of the women, but then flinched back at the unearthly light of their eyes and the burning red of their blades. And then as abruptly as they sensed it, the alarming sensation vanished.

The Dark Side calmed, and the temperature rose. "What was that?" Joanna asked.

"It was like…I…I haven't felt anything like that since my days on Korriban." Asphodel said, looking around them.

"This place does have something of a bloody history." Lysus mused. "Korriban, huh? I might have an idea what we just sensed."

"…a specter?" Asphodel breathed.

"And a particularly malevolent one at that." Lysus said with a smile.

"…so what do we do?" Joanna asked.

Lysus looked surprised. "Why should we do anything?" she asked. "It hasn't moved against us, so we have no reason to go and hunt it down to banish it. This is their tomb, in a way. They have the right to be here, and to do as they please. And as long as they don't get in our way, well…"

Chuckling to herself, Lysus deactivated her lightsaber and put it back on her waist. After a moment, the other warriors followed suit. "True," Asphodel agreed. "Anything able to keep itself in the realm of the living even after death has earned the right to do as they please, so long as they don't become hindrances to our purpose. And who knows? Perhaps this specter – and possibly others like it – might even be of benefit to us, like our lords and ancestors' specters sometimes are, on the homeworld."

"If so, then we've overreacted here and now." Joanna said while scratching her head. "What say you two we go and finish our drink?"

There was verbal agreement at that, and without a care for what _might_ be watching from the shadows, the three warriors returned the way they came.

* * *

A/N

For those of who you are unaware of what crimes Lysus is referring to that the Jedi and the Republic committed against the Sith, it's the Sith Genocide. A thousand years before SWTOR, in the aftermath of the Great Hyperspace War, on the orders of the Supreme Chancellor the Republic and the Jedi killed every last man, woman, and child who lived in what was once the Sith Empire, and did all they could to erase every trace of the Sith's history and culture. The only survivors were Naga Sadow and those who followed him to Yavin IV, and those who followed Vitiate to Dromund Kaas. The latter in particular, used the trauma of the survivors, reeling from the horror of genocide, to unite and galvanize them under the purpose of rebuilding the empire, for the day they returned to known space, and enacted revenge against the Jedi and the Republic.

It should be noted that a thousand years after the fact, and the Jedi, those oh-so-noble paragons of morality and virtue, only _think_ they _might_ have made a mistake by committing genocide.

No, Oberyn isn't a Force sensitive. His emotions are just so intense that they cause the Force around him to roil in response. He'd make a fine Sith though, if he was Force sensitive.

And as might be expected, the Sith find their suspicions of what is likely a malevolent specter/s haunting the Red Keep to be…a non-problem. Why should it be? Their sacred homeworld of Korriban is home to numerous such specters, so you could say they're used to the presence of such beings. As long as they're not a hindrance, what does it matter?


	13. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Wars: The Old Republic_ , which is the property of BioWare and LucasArts. Neither do I own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , which is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Falling Shadows

Chapter 12

The _Impetuous_ flew low over the Mountains of the Moon, low for a vessel meant to cruise amidst the great, empty void between the stars, but still hundreds of meters above the snow-capped peaks of the Vale of Arryn. As it rumbled through the air, snow was dislodged by the vibrations of the great ship's passing, and sending avalanches roaring down the mountainsides.

In the distance, the towers of the Eyrie stabbed into the sky from the Giant's Lance, and aboard the dreadnought sirens sounded the crew to General Quarters. Imperial soldiers rushed from their ready rooms, already in full armor and carrying their weapons, quickly marching through the corridors to the hangars where dropships were waiting for their passengers.

Technicians hurried with last-minute checks, topping up fuel tanks and sealing valves and access panels. Pilots made last-minute checks of their instrumentation and weaponry, and then Imperial soldiers were marching through the hangars and boarding their dropships.

Then came the Sith, warriors in black durasteel, phrik, and cortosis, armorweave cloaks fluttering with every movement. Men stood to attention and bowed, but a gesture from Darth Achaia had them standing down and returning to their duties.

Engines growled to life with flares of heat, and then repulsors were engaging to lift the dropships off the hangar deck. Deck officers gave the all-clear, and then the dropships were soaring out through the containment fields and into the open air.

 _Supremacy_ fighters soared past, flying ahead of the dropships, though they held fire and instead moved to secure the surrounding airspace. There were no indications that the locals could threaten the dropships on approach, but still, procedures had to be followed regardless.

The dropships moved in, breaking into two groups. One group circled the towers of the Eyrie, doors opening to allow gunners to provide cover fire. Heavy repeating blasters spat out torrents of crimson light, scything through men-at-arms and knights without mercy, and sweeping the battlements clear.

"FOR THE EMPIRE!" Darth Achaia shouted as he leapt off his dropship, followed by the Sith Warriors. The Imperial Army followed suit, shouting a wordless war cry as they followed their lord's example, jetpacks flaring to slow the soldiers down where the Sith had the Force to do so for them.

Men landed in crouches or rolled forward, followed by loud thumps as Sith War Droids landed and then unfolded. Laser fire erupted as Imperial Army soldiers spread out, opening fire with their blaster rifles as war droids provided supporting fire with heavy, twin-linked blasters.

The Sith were at the very forefront, lightsabers swinging as they smashed into the ranks of Arryn Household Guards and knights, sending sparks and drops of molten metal spraying as they carved through armor and swords, and throwing dismembered corpses down and aside as they advanced. Each tower had an assigned force to secure it, and more troops were disembarked behind, to secure those portions of the castle built into the mountain itself.

For their part, the Sith had as their goal the private chambers of the Arryn lord, located within the Moon Tower. Darth Achaia led the way, having memorized the layout based on records provided by Grand Maester Pycelle in King's Landing.

Knights and guards struggled to stop him, but he simply carved his way through. Where there was space to outflank him, the warriors behind covered his flank, and where there were windows present, a gesture or two was all that was needed to send knights and guards flying and falling to their doom.

 _Ah…Niman…not the most effective style to use a lightsaber with, but the most suited to complement active use of the Force on the battlefield._

A raised hand blew the doors into the private chambers of Lysa Arryn, self-proclaimed Queen Regent of the Mountain and the Vale, open. Crossbowmen lying in wait fired, but Darth Achaia gestured with his fingers, and turned the bolts around in midair and shot the crossbowmen with their own weapons. Knights attempted to attack, and Darth Achaia raised a hand.

They rose into the air, clutching at their necks, and then the Sith Lord clenched his fist with the sound of breaking bone, moments before lifeless corpses fell to the ground. Proceeding through the chambers accompanied by his warriors, the Sith ignored cowering and terrified maids and ladies-in-waiting, and then blew open a door leading into a chamber with a crib at its heart.

A child's wailing filled the air, followed by a scream of fury as Lysa charged Darth Achaia. Lightning erupted and then threw the supposed queen against a wall, gasping and twitching from the effects of current ripping through her body.

She pressed herself against the wall as Darth Achaia approached, his saberstaff mere inches from her chest. "You are such an annoyance." He malevolently said. "Death is too good for you: sleep!"

At the command, Lysa fell into a deep and dark sleep, her weakened and crumbling mind no match for the power of the Dark Side. Darth Achaia scoffed in contempt. Of the noblewomen he had so far encountered, Lysa Arryn was without a doubt the most pathetic.

Asha Greyjoy was only barely an adult, and Catelyn Stark a homemaker, but both had strength of will and mind in droves, and the former had such fire in her. Even Cersei Lannister, for all that she was consumed by blinding pride and arrogance, had enough spirit and even low cunning that Darth Achaia could spare her a modicum of grudging respect.

This woman though…

 _What a pitiful sight._

"Get her back aboard the _Impetuous_." He ordered. "Secure her aboard the medical wing."

"And the child, my lord?" a Sith Warrior asked.

"Get one of those servants from before to take care of it." Darth Achaia said. "And assemble this province's lordlings. I shall personally make arrangements with regard to its political reorganization."

"Yes, my lord."

* * *

The reorganization of the Vale proved surprisingly quick to finish. Their strength had been broken in the Riverlands, and most of their lords either dead or taken prisoner. Those that had remained in the Vale, along with those that had been taken prisoner – and who had already sworn allegiance to the Sith following Queen Regent Cersei doing likewise for her son – had been brought in by shuttle from their fiefs or from King's Landing.

There had been some grumbling at the sight of Darth Achaia, a foreigner who did not keep the faith, seated on the falcon's throne, and unashamedly at that, but they were ignored, and usually only a glance from the Sith Lord's burning eyes was enough to silence the grumblers. There was also the presence of the Sith Warriors, intimidating in their darkened armor, and the Imperial soldiers standing against the walls of the High Hall.

It was first agreed to recognize Robert Arryn as Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East. Then those lords still unsworn to the Sith did so, and then Darth Achaia, acknowledging the current lord's youth, named the High Steward of the Vale, Nestor Royce, as Regent for Robert Arryn until his majority.

A well-respected man of an old and dignified family of the Vale, the Vale Lords accepted such an appointment with no fuss. Then came the question of who would foster the young lord, as Darth Achaia had declared his mother insane and to be returned to her family in Riverrun.

This had caused no small amount of grumbling, though it was apparently only for show. The Vale Lords quickly moved on, arguing amongst themselves on who would have the honor of fostering their immediate overlord (and in so doing gain great influence over him).

Darth Achaia allowed the Vale Lords to argue for a time, and then took the matter into his own hands. While the lordlings had argued, he had peered through the veil of time with the power of the Force, and together with his acquired knowledge of local politics, made his choice. House Hunter of Longbow Hall would have the honor and responsibility of fostering Robert Arryn in his youth.

Another old and dignified family, there was no real opposition to the choice. For show, some of the more ambitious lords voiced token reservations, but by and large, they all accepted the decision. A gesture from Darth Achaia had Imperial soldiers escorting old Lord Eon Hunter and his son and heir, Ser Harlan Hunter (whose older brothers had died in the Riverlands) to where Robert Arryn was being tended to by his household.

And then rising from the weirwood throne, Darth Achaia left the lords to their devices while heading to the section of the Eyrie set aside as a landing pad. "Any word?" he asked once they were out of earshot.

"Lord Axcis has reported a successful conclusion with regard to his mission to Dorne." Ulysvau Gumell, one of the Sith Warriors present, answered. "In King's Landing, Lord Lannister has appointed his council."

"Oh?"

"Yes," Ulysvau said with a nod. "Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill has replaced Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun as Master of Laws, and Ser Kevan Lannister has replaced Lord Petyr Baelish as Master of Coin. Lord Monford Velaryon of Driftmark is now Master of Ships, while the Master of Whisperers and Grand Maester remain unchanged."

"…I see…send word to King's Landing. Keep Petyr Baelish from leaving the city. I would speak to him before his departure."

"Yes, my lord."

"…was that all?"

"No, my lord." Ulyvau said. "Apparently, Lord Lannister has betrothed his grandson the king to the daughter of Lord Tyrell."

Darth Achaia snorted. "I do not need foresight to have seen that coming." He said. "Neutralizing by association…an old but very effective tactic to remove a rival without spilling blood."

"As you say, my lord."

"What of the king's guard?"

"Yes, Lord Lannister plans to hold a tournament to determine its new members."

Darth Achaia snorted and then laughed. "A tournament, is it?" he asked. "How very…provincial, though I can approve of the spirit. No matter…let them do as they please. In the meantime, we will make our move towards the eastern continent. Complete the withdrawal from this province within two hours."

"Yes, my lord."

Nodding, Darth Achaia crossed the open-air space to where the dropship was waiting. Boarding, he took his seat followed by his warriors, and in minutes was flying up and back aboard the _Impetuous_.

* * *

Jaime wasn't feeling very well. His nightmares were getting worse, so much so that he couldn't bring himself to consciously remember the details, only waking up several times in the night, sweating so badly his sheets were soaked through by the morning, and his heart beating painfully against his chest.

The worst part was that the nightmares weren't regular. At times they would occur night after night after night, and then would stop for a number of days, before starting over again. It was taking its toll on his health, and no matter what medication Pycelle prescribed him, nothing seemed to help.

Well, the stronger stuff the old man had offered _might_ help, but Jaime had declined. He preferred his mind intact, thank you very much, and for some reason feeling spiteful at Pycelle had pointed out offering such…dangerous, medication might earn him some…negativity, from Jaime's father.

Needless to say, the old man had been rather perturbed. Jaime found it quite gratifying and even _soothing_.

 _What is wrong with me?_

The question brought a semi-conscious memory coming to mind, of dark eyes looking at him with malevolent delight, and of cold, dead hands stroking his face with deceptive tenderness. An echo of an unearthly, spectral scream seemed to linger in his ears, and Jaime found himself shuddering despite himself.

Rubbing at his mailed – no longer one of the Kingsguard, Jaime had sent away his plate armor to be reworked with Lannister imagery instead of that of the Kingsguard, and for the time wore only a hauberk for armor – arms, Jaime proceeded on his way along the cool but sunny corridors of the Red Keep. As he went on his way, he blinked at a strange and humming sound, along with rapidly-repeating crackling.

Hurrying along to find out what it was, he stopped on a balcony and looked down on an atrium below, where a pair of Sith were practicing with each other. Their red blades clashed against each other with frightening speed and force, the two warriors hammering at each other with deceptively-brutal blows that were actually chained to each other, the strength of each blow seamlessly flowing into the next with minimal waste of force and momentum.

" _No,_ " Jaime thought as he kept on watching. " _It's more than that. Even when they parry, the force of the enemy's blow flows into the riposte, actually turning their enemies' strength against them. They have skill…_ "

Jaime blinked, and then leaned forward to rest on folded arms over the railing while continuing to watch. He'd heard how the Sith's blades – called 'lightsabers' apparently – were all but weightless, which no doubt contributed to their agility, but he suspected there was more to it, given the preponderance of seemingly-meaningless flourishes and movements in the Sith's swordsmanship.

" _Is it the Force?_ " he asked. " _I'd heard that's also how they move so quickly themselves, so…is it the same with their swordsmanship?_ "

And then as the Sith crossed blades, they flung out their hands at each other, and Jaime's eyebrows rose as their faces twisted with concentration and seeming difficulty. " _What…?_ " he asked.

The thought broke off as the two Sith were thrown away from each other, and not just them. A wall of invisible power rippled outward, knocking nearby seats down and shaking the small trees and bushes around the atrium. Even Jaime felt the touch of…something, striking him from below.

"What's this?" a feminine voice asked from nearby, Jaime's eye turning in its direction. "A voyeur?"

Jaime's mouth fell open at being accused of being a voyeur, though he quickly closed it as he realized who was speaking. Thoughts of sarcastically tearing into whichever servant would be so cavalier to speak to him like so similarly ebbed away, the Lannister heir instead drawing himself up at the sight of a blonde Sith in that strange…style, of clothes most of them seemed to wear.

"My lady," he said with a small nod. "Apologies for the misunderstanding but…"

The Sith laughed and waved him off, walking closer to join him on the railing. Looking down, she regarded her fellow Sith continuing their practice match. "Jaime Lannister, right?" she asked.

"So I am." Jaime said with a small bow. "And you have me at a disadvantage, Lady…?"

The Sith laughed again and shook her head. "Not a lady yet," she said. "For now, Joanna Waltov will suffice."

"I see."

Jaime fell silent at that. " _Joanna…_ " he thought. " _The same name as my mother…_ "

"…something wrong?"

Jaime blinked and then coughed. "Apologies," he said. "My thoughts wandered off."

"So I see." Joanna said with a nod, and then she narrowed her eyes. "But you haven't really answered my question either."

"…apologies…nothing is wrong."

"Hmm…is that so?" Joanna said with a neutral expression on her face. "I'll take your word for it. Until we meet again, Ser Jaime."

"Likewise, Lady Joanna." Jaime said with a polite bow.

Joanna's lips twitched into a smile, and then she strode past. Jaime looked after her for a while, and then turned back down where the Sith were still sparring. Unnoticed, further down the corridor, Joanna had paused, and looked back at Jaime.

" _Marked…that man is marked…_ " she thought. " _By what and for what I do not know, but he is marked._ "

Sighing, the Sith washed her thoughts and hands of the matter, and departed on her way.

* * *

The return of the _Impetuous_ would see the Sith gather aboard the flagship, along with the senior officers of the Imperial military forces present. They gathered around a holo-table, on which was shown the western and central parts of Essos. At a touch of the controls, it zoomed in on the former.

"With the Vale and Dorne secure," Darth Achaia said with a nod at Lord Axcis who bowed in acknowledgement. "It is time for us to make our move onto the eastern continent. Conventional logic suggests we strike at the most powerful among them first, the better to shock and awe the other so-called Free Cities into surrender. However, I would invert this, and instead bring the other Free Cities to heel first, and then force the mightiest among them to bow. Such will have a greater effect than simply striking Braavos down first of all."

There were nods around the table at that. "Our first target will be the cities once known as the Triarchy." Darth Achaia said, focusing the hologram on three cities forming a rough triangle off southwestern Essos. "Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys: Lord Felicis, take the _Dominion_ to Myr, and bring the city to heel. Lord Axcis, head to Lys with the _Titanic_ and bring it to heel. I will personally oversee the subjugation of Tyrosh."

"And afterwards?" General Granger asked.

Darth Achaia then pointed his finger at Volantis. "Once the Triarchy has been subjugated," he said. "We'll move against the oldest, biggest, and second most powerful Free City: Volantis the Great."

"I see." General Granger said with a nod, and tapping his chin. "I can see how much more effective this is than shock and awe."

"Indeed," Lysus agreed with a nod. "With shock and awe alone, as such fades in the passing of time, there will be those who argue that we were only able to win – no matter our overwhelming superiority in technology – because we struck so quickly before any real strength could be mustered to resist, and dazzled the rest into surrender."

"Well-reasoned Lysus," Darth Achaia said. "Continue."

"Here," Lysus continued. "We slowly but inexorably seize control of the continent, our might like an unstoppable force of nature, steadily encroaching to encompass everything it encounters. None shall be unaware of its extent by the end, and they will never forget it."

"Indeed," Darth Achaia said. "Very well done, apprentice."

Lysus bowed, and then Darth Achaia turned back to the hologram. "From Volantis we proceed north," he said. "Up the Rhoyne, towards the cities of Norvos and Qohor. Speaking of the Rhoyne though, based on local information and from what the Force warns me, we may require extreme measures with regard to certain…complications, along the route."

"Complications, my lord?" Lord Felicis asked.

"Yes," Darth Achaia said before turning to General Granger. "General, do we have any neutron or thermobaric weapons in our arsenal?"

"…not neutron weapons, unfortunately," the general answered after a moment's thought. "But do we have a small number of thermobaric weapons available."

"Hmm…neutron weapons would be preferred, but thermobaric will suffice." Darth Achaia thoughtfully said. "Find out how many, and let me know as soon as possible."

"I'll have it done within the hour."

"Thank you."

The general bowed before briefly turned away to confer with an aide, the young man saluting before hurrying off to enact the general's orders. "I will personally deal with Qohor," Darth Achaia was saying. "Lord Felicis, once again, take the _Dominion_ and bring Norvos to heel."

"Yes, my lord."

"Once those cities are done," Darth Achaia said. "We'll take the main fleet and hold position just off the coast of Braavos. In the meantime, Lords Axcis and Felicis will bring Lorath and Pentos respectively to heel, while we put the pressure on Braavos simply with our presence. Once both cities are secure, we'll rendezvous and combine all our fleet strength above the city, and force their surrender."

"Western Essos will be ours." Lysus said with a smirk.

"Yes…" Darth Achaia thoughtfully said. "I'd rather think too far ahead, but for now…I'll set aside those nomads in the central part of the continent."

The Sith Lord reached forward, and pointed at the Smoking Sea and the Valyrian Archipelago within. "Valyria," he said. "I would see Valyria."

"…what do you expect to find, my lord?" Lord Felicis asked.

"A Wound in the Force," Darth Achaia said. "And the ruins and relics of a dead civilization, strong in the Dark Side of the Force."

The Sith looked at each other, and after a few moments Darth Achaia nodded. "That should be enough for now." He said. "With the outline of our next operation set, let us work on the details. Any criticism or suggestions?"

* * *

Darth Achaia strode through the stone corridors of the Red Keep towards his destination, a pair of Lannister Household Guards opening the doors to a fairly-large room open with a deep bow. A man was waiting for the Sith Lord inside, and who rose and bowed deeply as Darth Achaia entered. Behind him, the doors closed with an ominous note.

"Lord Peter Baelish," Darth Achaia said with a nod. "Of the Little Finger, I believe?"

"That is correct, Lord Achaia."

Darth Achaia languidly paced from one side to another, Baelish following with a small but disarming smile. "You seem unsettled." The Sith Lord said after several moments. "Do not fear, I merely seek to set some…potential, misunderstandings correct."

"Potential misunderstandings, my lord?"

"Yes," Darth Achaia said with a nod. "I've looked into your background, Lord Baelish. There is…much, to say about you."

"I can only hope to meet my lord's expectations."

"Indeed," Darth Achaia said with a tilt of his head. "For starters, you are the son of a small-time lord, who earned the favor of one of your Lords Paramount, and for it you were honored by being…fostered, in said Lord Paramount's home."

"So I was, my lord."

"However, that is not what impresses me ever so much about you, Lord Baelish." Darth Achaia said. "For all that, you remain but one of the smallest and least powerful lordlings of this realm. And all of that was ultimately not born of your merit, but your ancestors'."

Baelish made a gesture indicative of agreement, though the Force sang of frustration, resentment, and anger. "I cannot deny any of that." He admitted.

"But merit you have, Lord Baelish." Darth Achaia said, striding up to and close to the man. "You are of the least of the nobility, and yet you have built a fortune several times beyond that of your status from your management of a post in the city of Gull Harbor, had previously earned the favor of another Lord Paramount, and finally gained a post in the council of the realm. And that is impressive."

"You honor me, my lord." Baelish said with a bow.

Darth Achaia chuckled and swept away, towards one of the balconies looking out over a garden and the Blackwater beyond. "You have a sharp mind." He said. "And you know how to use it to make your ambitions reality. That I can respect."

Baelish said nothing. "Tell me," Darth Achaia continued. "What is next for you, Lord Baelish?"

"As you well know," Baelish began. "I have recently lost my seat on the council. I would return to my properties, and set my affairs into order. And from there, I will see what opportunities present themselves."

"I see." Darth Achaia said. "Not a bad beginning or decision, to set things in order before resuming working to achieve your ultimate goal."

"…my ultimate goal?"

Darth Achaia was silent for several moments, and then he turned and made to walk towards the doors. Just a few steps from them, he paused, and spoke without turning. "Catelyn Stark," he said. "Or should I say Catelyn Tully?"

Baelish's eyes widened, and he made to speak…

…only to realize he couldn't. Something was keeping him from breathing, the air from moving down his airways, and he grasped at his neck, struggling vainly to pry at invisible and intangible fingers wrapped around him.

"I foresee Westeros," Darth Achaia said, turning to regard Baelish with burning eyes. "No, this planet will develop a certain amount of value to the empire in the foreseeable future. Not critical by any stretch of the imagination, but it will have value. And if nothing else, there are certain…treasures, that will be of great interest to the empire."

Baelish couldn't say anything, collapsing to his knees while clutching at his neck and choking while struggling to breathe. "Take care not to choke on your ambitions, Lord Baelish." Darth Achaia warned. "This world will never be critical as far as I can see to the empire, but it will belong to the empire. And as a Lord of the Sith, I will not allow your… _obsession_ , to throw it into anarchy."

Releasing his telekinetic chokehold, Darth Achaia watched dispassionately as Baelish collapsed on all fours, wheezing and gasping. "I will warn you this once, and once only." He said. "Pursue your ambitions, but remember this. Remember your place with regard to the empire. Disregard that fool, Brandon Stark's lesson, but not mine."

Without further words, the Sith Lord turned and left, pushing the doors open before him and stepping out. As the doors closed, Baelish allowed himself to collapse on his back, breathing hard and with his face burning in humiliation. As he remembered once more that fateful day in Riverrun, and what had just occurred, he closed his eyes and screamed in frustration.

* * *

A/N

The 'strange style' Jaime refers to with regard to Joanna's clothes is the unisex, military cut favored by low-ranking Sith most of the time. Remember, Joanna's still just another Sith Warrior, and who hasn't been apprenticed to a lord yet.

Now, what could have drawn Darth Achaia's attention and be so bad he wants to neutron bomb the hell out of it? Well, you'll just have to wait and see.


	14. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Wars: The Old Republic_ , which is the property of BioWare and LucasArts. Neither do I own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , which is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Falling Shadows

Chapter 13

 _On and on they came, rank after rank of knights from the Golden Company, wearing golden surcoats and the leather padding of their shields painted with the same colors. They poured through the corridors of the Red Keep, booted feet trampling and stepping over the lifeless bodies of Baratheon and Lannister Household Guards, and splashing in pools of blood. Swords and maces gleamed in the light of what few candles remained to light the Red Keep's interior, and what light that came through the windows did so through a pall of smoke._

 _King's Landing burned, as an army numbering over half a hundred thousand poured through four of the city's seven gates, the battlements of the walls and towers which should have protected the city blackened and seared clean of defenders by dragon fire. The banners of a thousand houses from the Reach flew over the host, alongside the sable and red of House Targaryen. There was no escape on land…_

 _…or sea, as dozens of ships poured men into the harbor, the banners of the Crownlands flying alongside that of House Targaryen._

 _And from the tunnels beneath the Red Keep they came, the knights of the Golden Company, come to deliver the killing blow. Ser Jaime fought alongside the rest of the Kingsguard, against a seemingly never-ending tide of plate-armored foes. Again and again his sword rose and fell, parrying and riposting, feinting and striking, cutting and stabbing, piercing through steel and padded leather into the flesh beneath, and setting blood freely flowing._

 _Body after body fell to the ground, and they still kept on coming. Jaime was so tired, but he kept on fighting, even as the Kingsguard began to fall one after another._

 _Ser Boros Blount was the first to fall, the fat man gurgling as a sword cut his belly open, bloody entrails spilling out before a sword through his neck put him out of his misery._

 _Next to fall was Ser Barristan Selmy, as a press of Golden Company knights drove a wedge between the ancient knight and his brothers before surrounding him. Jaime and the rest of the Kingsguard struggled to break through, to come to the aid of their brother, but they couldn't, in time only to watch him felled like a beast by a weighed net, and dragged away for some purpose none could fathom and dreaded to ponder._

 _Ser Meryn Trant was next, falling after the knight he slew briefly blinded him with a spray of blood through his visor. Struggling to see, Ser Meryn flailed wildly with his sword, leaving a gap in his defenses long enough for a mace to bash his side in, and causing the knight to fall to his knees with a cry of pain. The mace rose and fell once and then twice more, the first caving in the knight's helm and sending him to the ground, and the second pulping his head within the ruins of his helm._

 _Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Arys Oakheart followed Ser Meryn into the Stranger's embrace, overpowered and cut down by tall knights from the Golden Company. They died cleanly, swords thrust through their bodies ending their lives in a few quick moments._

 _Last of Jaime's brothers to fall was Ser Mandon Moore. He fought back to back against Jaime as they struggled to fend off a ring of steel around them, and ultimately it was Jaime dodging a swung flail that doomed Ser Mandon. The spiked ball on a chair struck Ser Mandon in the neck, the spikes piercing his steel collar and sending blood spraying even as the knight fell dying to the ground._

 _Last of the Kingsguard to stand was Ser Jaime Lannister, and so was he the last to fall, just as Ser Barristan did. Like an animal, caught by a weighed net, and dragged off with mockery._

 _They took him to the throne room, the floor littered with corpses from the Golden Company and the household guards of Houses Baratheon and Lannister. Jaime saw the Iron Throne, and felt his blood run cold as he saw King Robert, forced to his knees before a young man with gold-silver hair. Blood flew as dragonglass cut through flesh, and Robert cried out as he was blinded._

 _He cried out again as he was muted, and again as he was castrated._

 _Jaime roared and struggled to break free as he watched the former happen, desperate to reach his king. He needed to reach him. He needed to fulfil his oath, his duty…_

 _…this was a dream._

 _No…a nightmare…_

 _…but that was just it, wasn't it?_

 _It was **his** nightmare. It was all in his head, and thus his to change with but a thought._

 _A thought had the weighed net crumbling to dust. The next thought had his sword return to his hand, its weight a comforting one._

 _And then he felt himself pressed to his knees as a someone threw themselves at him from behind. They weren't particularly heavy, indeed, Jaime could throw them off with little effort. But then pale, bloodless limbs wrapped themselves around his chest, and Jaime gasped with fear and terror as Princess Elia placed her chin on a shoulder, and placed her pallid cheek against his._

 _"Now, now, Ser Jaime," she said with a sing-song voice. "Your fight is over. Now, you must watch."_

 _Jaime's sword crumbled into rust in his hand, and no matter how hard he willed it, it refused to return his hand. Neither did his strength return, the knight remaining on his knees and in Elia's embrace as she forced him to watch._

 _And watch he did. He watched as a broken King Robert was cast down the dais, and he watched as his father was affixed to a familiar device. Jaime's shout of denial was cut off as Elia grabbed his chin and held his mouth shut with the inhuman strength of something from beyond the grave._

 _"You remember, don't you Ser Jaime?" she asked sweetly. "You know what's going to happen now. And while the Starks didn't deserve their fates…your father…your bitch of a sister…and your bastards…"_

 _Jaime screamed and struggled in vain as Cersei and her children's screams filled the throne room, green flames of wildfire consuming their flesh, even as Tywin Lannister choked himself to death struggling to reach and save his daughter and grandchildren._

 _"…so desperate to save them…" Elia mockingly remarked, as she kept Jaime in place. "If only you'd been just as devoted to your duty back then, Ser Jaime. Then this…need not have happened…_ "

 _And then Elia smiled, and forcing Jaime to face her, pressed her lips against his…_

Jaime awoke screaming.

* * *

The archon's antechamber was a scene of carnage. A swing of Lysus' lightsaber cut one of the archon's guards down, and the next one cut one of his sons down, the backswing claiming the life of a second.

"Mercy…!" Firanera, the archon's second wife pleaded as the Sith Warrior advanced on her.

Lysus' mercy was her lightsaber through the woman's gut, Firanera crying out in pain and shock, falling dying to the ground Lysus withdrew her weapon and advanced on another pair of guards. Two swings cut their swords to pieces, a backswing cutting the archon's steward down before Lysus killed the guards and then another one of the archon's sons.

Two of the archon's daughters followed, their pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears before the cauterized halves of their bodies fell to the ground. "Please…mercy…!" Irronos, the archon's brother pleaded as Lysus advanced, and held out a sheathed dagger in shaking hands. "This dagger…Valyrian steel…take it! Take whatever you want just…NO…!"

Lysus ignored the man's attempts at bargaining for his life, and beheaded him without a word. Sidestepping a guard's attempt to attack her from the rear, she cut him down with a one-handed _sai tok_ before advancing on the archon's good-father, the man weeping and screaming incoherently as he pressed himself against a pillar with hands held out imploringly.

His screaming ended abruptly as Lysus cut him down with a swing, and then she threw her lightsaber in the direction of the door. Simultaneously, she held up her hands, Force Lightning erupting to engulf the archon's cowering councilors. Their screams of pain as their flesh blackened and burned, and their clothes turned to ash, filled the air along with the stink of burning cloth and flesh, their agony feeding Lysus' power in the Dark Side, even as she simultaneously controlled her lightsaber telekinetically, cutting down a fresh group of guards before calling it back to her hand.

Catching it smoothly, she held up her free hand, and causing the archon's first wife, Ferissa, to rise into the air choking and working at her throat. Turning her gaze from the charred corpses of the archon's councilors, Lysus cast her thoughts across the archon's palace, and found what she was looking for. Clenching her hand into a fist, there was the sound of breaking bone, and then opening it, had Ferissa's lifeless body falling to the ground even as the Sith Warrior quickly strode off to pursue the Archon of Tyrosh.

Passing through a door hidden behind a tapestry, Lysus marched down a dim tunnel cut into the walls, and then around a corner and then another emerged onto an upper floor corridor. The far side of the corridor looked out over a hall beneath, the marbled floor littered with corpses. Red lightsabers hummed as they rose and fell, Sith Warriors as an unstoppable tide of dark wrath, cutting down guards, sellswords, magisters, and everything and everyone in their path.

Lysus leapt up onto the rafters, keeping to the shadows as she stalked her prey, leaping from one pillar and beam to another, until finally, she dropped down before the archon and cut off his escape route. Metal clinked against stone as a bejeweled dagger fell from trembling hands, a sharp stink filling the air as the man wet himself.

"…m-mercy…please…" Adarero Maegaris, Archon of Tyrosh pleaded with a desperate smile and a sweat-stained face. "I-it was nothing personal…surely you understand…the value of bargaining from a position of strength…!"

The man's pleading turned into a cry of pain as Lysus cut him down, the Sith Warrior turning from the man's corpse with a scoff of contempt.

 _Pathetic…_

* * *

Darth Achaia stood on the _Impetuous_ ' command deck, staring out over the city of Tyrosh. Smoke rose in black columns from the inner city, as Imperial soldiers gathered the corpses of the city's leaders and their men to burn them in great pyres. Others more guarded the homes of the fallen, along with the archon's palace and the government buildings, to ensure looting of any kind was prevented.

Across the outer city as well, Imperial soldiers gathered the corpses of the fallen and burned them in great pyres, and marched up and down the streets in platoon-strength accompanied by war droids fitted with gas nozzles and tanks of Agent A, with the task of maintaining order in the wake of the city's fall. Others maintained a lockdown of the city, completely occupying the harbor and keep any and all ships from leaving, and blocking the bridges leading to the mainland with barricades featuring heavy weapons.

After the…clean, takeover of Westeros, Tyrosh's fall had been a brutal one. But it was a necessary one, after they had taken the envoys the Sith had sent them and held them hostage as a means to get a stronger bargaining positioning. Had they stopped there, Darth Achaia might have been sufficiently-amused and impressed to let the matter slide, and allow the Tyroshi their token 'stronger' bargaining position.

But the fools had let their greed go too far, and in a show of resolve, had blinded one of the envoys with a solar mirror before literally filleting the man. Such a show of contempt for the Sith's supremacy even in the face of a dreadnought hanging over the city had led Darth Achaia to issue a blanket execution order for every inhabitant of the inner city, their deaths a consequence to be burned into the memories of the city's inhabitants, and indeed, of the whole world as to the fates of any and all who defied the Sith.

Darth Achaia had later rescinded the order, once the archon's palace had fallen…in part. Now, only the adult men were to be executed in their entirety. The surviving women and children would be thrown into slavery. Granted, much of the inner city's populace _were_ slaves already, so there wasn't much change there, but for the surviving nobility…well…

"My lord," a junior officer reported with a bow. "We've made contact with Lords Axcis and Felicis."

"Very good…" Darth Achaia said while striding away from the viewports, and towards where holograms of the two other Sith Lords were waiting. They bowed as Darth Achaia approached. "And…?"

"Good news, my lord." Lord Axcis said with a smile. "Lys has submitted without complications, and has even offered tribute with only a request that the reigning order in their city be maintained in fealty to the empire and the Emperor."

"And what do you think, Lord Axcis?" Darth Achaia asked.

"So long as they submit, what does it matter _how_ they govern themselves?" Lord Axcis replied.

"The future governor of this world, who is likely to be a Westerosi, might have…problems, with maintaining the order of things in the east of his world." Darth Achais observed.

"True," Lord Axcis agreed with a nod. "But what does that matter to us? They can either govern this world…or they cannot. They must either find a way to do so…and if they cannot, they can always be replaced."

"…well said." Darth Achaia said. "What is the nature of this tribute they offer us?"

"A thousand and one virgin bed slaves, of both sexes." Lord Axcis replied. "I have already begun searching for signs of Force sensitivity. Also, they offer gold and unworked cloth of various kinds, such as silk and linen."

Darth Achaia laughed. "Not a bad tribute for a bunch of primitives." He said. "And if even one of them is found to possess the ability to touch the Force, then the value of their tribute increases threefold. Even without that, however, I see no reason not to accept their tribute, and to grant their request. Just make sure they understand that they will eventually have to acknowledge the authority of the empire's governor of this world when the time comes."

"It will be done, my lord."

Darth Achaia nodded, and then turned to Lord Felicis. "What of Myr, Lord Felicis?" he asked.

"Much like with Lys," Lord Felicis began. "Myr has offered tribute and asked only for recognition of the current order."

"And the nature of their tribute?" Darth Achaia asked.

"Luxury goods, mostly." Lord Felicis asked. "Lace, carpets, tapestries and other forms of textiles, as well as alcoholic drinks and ornamental weapons and items. They also offered five hundred artisan indentured servants."

"…a fancy word of saying slave." Darth Achaia remarked, but then raised an eyebrow. "But I sense there is more to it than that."

"As you say, my lord." Lord Felicis said. "From what I understand, the Myrish make a distinction between slaves and indentured servants. The former are property, much like how the Hutts view their slaves. The latter are…lesser, but they are not mere property, and remain individuals. Not too different from our own slave caste, I daresay."

"Hmm…I see your point." Darth Achaia said with a slow nod. "Artisans, though?"

"The magisters claim these are among the best craftsmen in their city." Lord Felicis said. "With some education to wider their horizons, their skills can be used to produce luxuries more in line with our tastes than to simply Myr's own."

"I see…very well, much like with Lys, I see no reason not to accept their tribute, and to grant their request. As with Lord Axcis though, make sure they understand that they will eventually have to acknowledge the authority of the empire's governor of this world when the time comes, Lord Felicis."

"Yes, my lord."

Darth Achaia nodded, and then crossed his arms. "Now then," he thought with narrowed eyes. "How to deal with the beheaded city below me…"

* * *

The royal family of the Seven Kingdoms were eating their supper in the Queen's Ballroom in Maegor's Holdfast when a servant brought with him a report on the war to the east. Tywin quickly read through it before chuckling and passing it to his brother.

"So the Triarchy of the Three Daughters has fallen, then." Kevan said as he also finished and handed the report to a surly-looking Cersei.

"So it has." Tywin said. "Lys and Myr offered tribute and submitted with only a humble plea for the current order of things to be respected, and the Sith have generously granted them their request. The Tyroshi though…greedy as ever, they sought to claim more with strength they did not possess, and now their city lies under a pall of smoke."

"The archon is dead along with his family and all the magisters…whose families have been sold into slavery." Cersei remarked while reading the report. "What do you intend to do about this, father?"

"Tyrosh is a complicated matter." Tywin said immediately before taking a drink of wine. "Given how…absolute, the Sith have dealt with Tyrosh's greed, it would be best to wait for their ultimate judgment with regard to the city before making any real thoughts and plans there. Lys and Myr though…"

Tywin silently thought the matter over for several moments. "The governorship of this world has yet to be decided." He said. "But it might be wise to start networking with the magisters to the east."

"Won't it be regarded as presumptuous by the Sith?" Kevan cautiously asked.

"Perhaps it might." Tywin conceded. "But it could also be seen as a show of initiative. A means of preemptively consolidating our power base for when the governorship is decided…one way or another."

Kevan narrowed his eyes in comprehension, though Cersei looked a bit incensed. "In other words," she said. "Whether you are appointed governor or not."

Cersei paused and scoffed. "I was under the impression you only submitted because you have been guaranteed the position of our world's governor." She said. "Surrendered our pride and dignity as a small sacrifice for the greater glory of our house…but then it turns out the conquerors' assurances are false and hollow. What else, father? How much more will we…"

"…no guarantees were made." Tywin smoothly interrupted while slicing into the steak lying on his plate. "From the start, it was already made clear that I was merely a candidate. One with excellent qualifications for the post, but a candidate still for all that. And I understand why. There may be others more qualified for the post, one way or another."

"So once again we must bow our heads, as we did before the Targaryens?" Cersei hissed.

Tywin gave his daughter a veiled glance of disappointment. "Death is final." He said after a moment. "An end to everything that was, is, and could be. King Loren's decision spared our house the fate of the Hoares and Gardeners, just as mine the fate of the Tyroshi archon. And in time, may just ensure greater fortunes for our house."

"In short," Jaime said. "Even if father isn't appointed governor, the game of thrones will continue, and with it opportunities to expand our power, influence, and wealth."

"Precisely," Tywin said with a nod before turning to his daughter. "Take note of your brother's perception, Cersei."

Cersei fumed at the rebuke, though Jaime looked thoughtful. "Who would be the other contenders for the post, father?" he asked.

"Here in Westeros with Jon Arryn dead, the only other capable contender would be Prince Doran of Dorne." Tywin answered.

"A Martell?" Cersei incredulously said. "What do those upstart sand-dwellers with only a halfway understanding of propriety and good breeding offer that we cannot?"

Tywin glared at his daughter, who realized she had gone too far. "To think highly of yourself is only to be expected." He said coldly. "You are a Lannister. It is only right and proper. But when you start looking down on and condescend to your peers, that I will not forgive."

Tywin held the glare for a moment before taking the loaf on his plate and broke it open. "That was the mistake the Targaryens made." He said, while spreading butter over the insides. "Perhaps when they still had dragons and with them the power to destroy armies and raze castles virtually on their own it might have made sense. But when the dragons died and the cooperation and support of the Great Houses became critical, their arrogance and entitlement destroyed them."

Tywin turned back to Cersei. "A good lesson to learn." He said.

Cersei said nothing, though she looked away from her father's glare. "Among the Free Cities, the Sealord may be a contender, or perhaps one of the Triarchs of Volantis." Tywin continued after a moment. "I doubt any of the Ghiscari or a Qartheen would be, but Yi-Ti though…"

Cersei dared not remark on such foreigners – even when compared to the Targaryens – being positioned above them, as much as she wanted to. "In any case," Tywin said. "Our position here in the west is secure, and is one from which we can build on…assuming I am not made governor. And if Prince Doran becomes governor…"

Tywin paused, and then regarded his grandchildren. Cersei followed his gaze and made to speak, only to fall silent as her father raised a single finger. "Prince Doran has children of his own." He said. "With Lorch and the Mountain sacrificed, their taste for blood will be satisfied enough that politics will take precedence."

"…the Targaryens could still be a threat." Kevan pointed out.

"The Targaryens have nothing to offer." Tywin dismissively said. "Even the supposed loyalty of some in the south is not nearly as threatening as it might sound. Dorne is not so much as loyal to them as they are to Princess Elia's memory, and I have already sacrificed enough to ease that grudge. The Tyrells are also only for themselves, and with Joffrey's betrothal, that concern is of no further consideration. No one else here in Westeros who might hold loyalty to the dragons is of any real import."

"And in the east?" Jaime asked. "The Targaryen are still blood of Old Valyria. That has to…"

"If that were the case, then they would long have been welcomed behind the Black Walls of Volantis." Tywin said. "But they were not. Blood of Old Valyria they might be, but the Old Blood are still realists. How can they not be, when they dare contend with Braavos? The Targaryens have nothing real to offer, and so they are nothing themselves. Just a beggar prince and princess waiting to starve or freeze with nothing but their hollow pride and memories to take with them to the grave."

At that declaration, Tywin stabbed a fork into his steak, blood seeping out of the meat as though in response to his words.

* * *

"A Force-sensitive?" a doctor asked. "You are sure?"

"I've triple-checked the data and source." The med-tech answered. "There's no doubt about it."

"How strong?" the doctor asked. "I'm not marking someone down for Korriban if they can barely bend a spoon or even that."

"Nearly half over the average values."

"I need specific numbers."

"Estimating at…twelve thousand midi-chlorians per cell."

"…okay," the doctor said after a pause. "That's definitely a powerful Force-sensitive. Update their charts, and mark them down for emancipation and a full medical exam. How old are they anyway?"

" _She_ is nine standard years old." The med-tech answered.

"…definitely needs a full medical exam." The doctor said while working on a nearby instrumentation panel. "No family, I take it?"

"None according to the data we have."

"Then she goes to Korriban _now_." The doctor said. "Even if she doesn't get to go through the trials for several more years, without family or anyone else looking out for her, much less being a slave handed over as tribute…"

"A full medical exam, right sir?" the med-tech said while working on his terminal.

"That's right."

Silence fell apart from the tapping on keyboards and the beeping of machinery. A few minutes later and the med-tech nodded. "Update completed, sir." He said. "I've also relayed orders for the handlers to transfer her to a medical bay for the exam, and to hold her until a transport is available to take her to Korriban."

"Alright, the fleet's medical arm will take care of her from there." The doctor said. "Make sure to upload her data."

"Already done, sir."

"Good…" the doctor said while double-checking. After a couple of moments, he nodded. "Alright, that definitely looks good. Let's move on."

"Yes, sir."

Elsewhere, Daenerys Targaryen resignedly allowed the dark-armored men to take her away from where she'd been sitting with her fellow slaves, as she had the men who killed her brother and sold her to the magisters of Lys, who then gave her to these people from the sky. After leading her through a series of corridors, she found herself facing a number of people wearing white coats over grey clothing, and speaking to each other in their language, was surprised to find her slave collar being removed, before being gently led away.

Little did she know, that here and now, fate had been changed. There would be no Mother of Dragons, no Silver Queen, no Breaker of Chains. Even with the coming of the Sith, those futures might still have been, had her brother lived and she had not been bound in the chains of slavery for a little time.

For those chains had allowed the eyes of the Sith to fall upon her, their burning gaze destroying what could have been…and from the ashes of those dead futures, a new future would arise.

Daenerys Stormborn, the Emperor's Wrath.

* * *

A/N

 _Sai tok_ : terminology for a lightsaber mark of contact involving cutting an opponent in half. Usually horizontally, but at times vertically as well. As an example…how Obi-Wan killed Darth Maul in _The Phantom Menace_.

Greed makes people do stupid things, yes? It's not a bad idea, really, to try and establish a better bargaining position against people who could turn your city to ash with a single command by using hostages to restrain their hands. It's also impressively ruthless that the Sith might even be amused enough to let it go…but when you hurt just one hostage to demonstrate your resolve…

…cue Sith Warriors on rampage butchering anything and everyone in your palace. Life's a bitch, isn't it?

That's the last we'll see of Dany in this fic. In the sequel, she'll show up as the Emperor's Wrath. If it seems a bit contrived how Viserys ended up biting the dirt, and Dany ended up a slave in Lys which gave her the opportunity to be noticed by the Sith, then I'll simply go with two common excuses: destiny, and the Butterfly Effect.


End file.
